


Our Blades Are Sharp

by Spectre4hire



Series: Our Blades Are Sharp [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Character Death, Domeric Bolton lives!, F/M, Jon doesn't join the Night's Watch, Loyal Boltons, R plus L equals J, Stark Family, strong sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:11:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 43
Words: 174,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8229550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spectre4hire/pseuds/Spectre4hire
Summary: The Houses of Bolton and Stark share a bloody history. Twice have the Boltons rebelled against the Starks, and twice have they been forced to bend the knee. The Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton decides a different tactic to strengthen his house under the Warden of the North. He offers his trueborn son and heir, Domeric Bolton as a ward to House Stark.





	1. Domeric

**Author's Note:**

> I have this story up on fanfiction.net, but I decided to put it over on here too in case there was any interest. 
> 
> Chapter one starts off two years before King Robert rides to Winterfell.
> 
> 296 AC

The Dreadfort, the seat of House Bolton, his family's house, it had been years since he looked upon his family's ancestral home. He had spent the past three years in the Vale, squiring for Lord Horton Redfort. He was sad to see it end when he received his father's summons. He would miss Jasper, Creighton, Jon, and Mychel. The sons of Lord Redfort had become his brothers during his stay.

Domeric Bolton understood why he needed to return. He was the heir, and one day he would become the Lord of the Dreadfort. It didn't lessen the sadness of him leaving. What boosted his spirits was the idea that Lord Redfort proposed of his sons travelling to the Dreadfort at some point in the future. The possibility made the departure easier to handle.

Getting closer to the gates of the Dreadfort, he urged his destrier to go faster, a gift from Lord Redfort. Domeric believed the gift was too much. Destriers were considered the most valuable horses in Westeros. They were well bred: tall and strong and were highly trained.

He loved horses; his Aunt Barbrey said that passion and appreciation came from her sister and his mother, Bethany Ryswell. After all, House Ryswell chose the horse for their sigil.

Lord Redfort insisted he take the beautiful destrier. Lord Redfort told him that with more practice and training, Domeric could become a tourney champion. A boast that Domeric wasn't sure he believed, but nonetheless appreciated. During his return trip, he and his horse instantly bonded, he had decided to call him Shadow. Unoriginal, but fitting, Domeric believed with his horse's dark coloring, great speed, and quiet demeanor it deserved the name.

Often while he rode atop Shadow, he understood the reverence the Dothraki people had towards horses. They were majestic and beautiful creatures. The confidence that flowed through him and the sense of elation he had that only could be found when riding. Domeric was certain that Shadow could hold his own against any of the horses the Dothraki had.

Looking back to see Shadow had easily distanced themselves away from the small retinue of riders that his father had dispatched to escort him home. He eased up on Shadow's reins leaving his destrier to pass through the castle gates at a trot. A large group of servants and soldiers had been waiting for the return of the heir to the Dreadfort. A few of the guards were holding the banners of House Bolton- a flayed man on a blue field.

They all bowed when he approached. It was then that he saw his father, The Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton. He was just as he remembered: short dark hair, clean shaven face, pale eyes that never conveyed what he was thinking or feeling. He was dressed in dark wool, the flayed man sigil emblazoned on his doublet. His father, was one of only two who did not bow, the other was standing right beside him.

Domeric couldn't help but smile when he saw his Aunt. Barbrey Dustin stood tall, her hair brown, wearing it tied behind her head in a widow's knot. She was dressed in black, behind her, one of her guards held up the personal banner that she used to show her allegiance to her family's house-Ryswell and her husband's house Dustin. Two corner of the coat of arms was of House Dustin: Two rusted long axes with black shafts crossed, with a black crown between their points on a yellow field. While the other two were of House Ryswell: a black horse's head, with red eyes and made on a bronze field.

After allowing a stable boy to take Shadow, Domeric made his way to where his Father and Aunt were standing. When he was close enough, he stopped and bowed his head to his father, the Lord of the Dreadfort.

"Stand," his father's voice was soft. "Let me see how my son has fared in the Vale."

Domeric obeyed. Straightening up and raising his head to allow his father a proper inspection. He stayed still and quiet as his father's pale eyes took him in. He thought he saw a flicker of approval, but after a moment he was sure he imagined it.

"Let's go inside," his father instructed, without decreeing if Domeric had passed his silent inspection. "We have much to discuss."

"Of course, Father," Domeric said even though his father had already turned around and was making his way up the steps.

"Dom," Aunt Barbrey greeted him warmly. Holding out her arms and hugging him fiercely.

Domeric returned the hug. He had always loved his Aunt, her impact and influence on his life only grew when he served as her page in Barrowton for four years when he was a boy. "I missed you, Aunt Barbrey."

She smiled. The wrinkles around her mouth became less visible when she did. Her hands on his shoulders, as her intelligent dark eyes studied him. "You've grown into quite the young man."

"Thank you," he said, silently pleased at the adulation that his Aunt was giving him. She had become like a second mother to him when his mother, her sister died years ago.

She seemed to sense it too. She nodded, holding out her arm. "Come, your Father waits."

He took her arm, escorting her up the stairs.

"So how many maidens did you bed during your stay?" His Aunt always spoke bluntly, never shying away from how she felt and was never bothered with speaking her mind.

Domeric squirmed under her teasing stare, despite not wanting to give her the satisfaction.

She laughed softly, "Many, I take it."

Thankfully, he was saved further embarrassment and questions when they stepped into the Great Hall. His father was already sitting at his seat, Maester Uthor stood beside him. He offered Domeric a kind smile.

"It is good to see you have returned."

Domeric returned the maester's smile. "It's good to see you too." He had always liked the old, stocky Maester to the Dreadfort. Uthor had always encouraged Domeric's yearning for knowledge, recommending what history books to read, and had also persuaded his father to allow Domeric to learn the harp.

Aunt Barbrey stiffened at the Maester's presence. Her lips formed a thin line and her eyes sharpened. Domeric had always noticed his Aunt's distaste for Maesters, remembering the cool curtsey she gave her own maester in Barrowton and her interactions with Maester Uthor had never been friendly.

"I have been talking with Lord Stark for some time," His father began without preamble. "And he has agreed to foster you."

Domeric took a seat in front of his father. Aunt Barbrey took the open seat beside him. He wasn't sure what to say. He was surprised. He had only just returned from the Vale, and had been expecting to stay at the Dreadfort for some time to be groomed as the next Lord of the Dreadfort.

The last thing he was expecting was to be sent off again and of all the houses, the one he least expected was the Starks. He knew his family history and was aware of the chilly relationship that his family had with them.

"I do not need to explain to you the importance of this." His father broke through his silent musings.

He looked up to see his father's pale eyes on him. "I understand, Father." He would not disappoint him.

"Good," his father's soft voice barely crossed the short distance between him and Domeric. "This could lead to a stronger relationship between our houses."

"Yes, indeed." Maester Uthor was nodding his head. "This could be the first step to uniting the two great northern houses."

"Uniting?" Domeric repeated, unsure what the Maester was implying.

"If your time in Winterfell goes well, a betrothal could be put in place between yourself and Lord Stark's eldest daughter, the Lady Sansa."

This was Father's ultimate goal, Domeric silently realized upon hearing Maester Uthor's answer.

He wanted a union between their houses. It would strengthen House Bolton's place within the North bringing with it more power and prestige. Domeric had his doubts. It was common and expected for the Major houses to marry with their own bannermen. However, the history between these two families did seem to serve as a difficult obstacle to overcome. He couldn't recall few if any times the two houses joined in marriage.

"Would Lord Stark even consider such a betrothal?" Domeric asked delicately.

"Do you not think House Bolton is worthy of such a union?" His father asked coldly.

"No, Father," Domeric answered meekly. Squirming under his father's intense gaze, realizing it had been a mistake to voice his doubts. His time in the Vale had spoiled him. He had forgotten how to speak and behave in the presence of his father.

Aunt Barbrey put a calming hand on his arm. "Lord Stark would be a fool to not appreciate this offer." Her tone had turned cold when saying Lord Stark's name.

"What your Aunt is trying to say," Maester Uthor began to speak.

"Do not dare speak for me," Barbrey warned the Maester with an icy glare.

"I meant no offense," Maester Uthor bowed his head.

"Now where was I before I was interrupted by that gray rat." Her face softened when she turned to Domeric. "You will be the most enticing offer, Dom that the Starks will receive."

"What do you mean?"

"You will one day be the Lord of the Dreadfort," she reminded him. "The second most powerful seat in the north, Lord Stark would not pass on the opportunity to turn his family's oldest rivals into his allies."

"When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow."  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

During his time with Lord Redfort in the Vale, it was the Godswood of the Dreadfort that Domeric missed the most. It rested in the heart of the Dreadfort, containing oaks, elms, and birch that rivaled the stone walls that were enclosed around it. The heart tree, a massive weirwood was nestled deep in the heart of the Godswood. Its branches climbed higher than the walls. An angry face was carved into the bark that was as white as bone.

The Redfort had a Godswood, but it was more a small garden. There was no weirwood in theirs. He was well rehearsed in history to know why. When the Andals had first come to Westeros, thousands of years ago, during their war with the First Men they destroyed the old kingdoms, burning down the weirwood groves as they went. They tossed down the Old Gods and supplanted them with the Faith of the Seven.

The only Kingdom of the First Men that successfully resisted was the North. The First Men had been able to toss back every Andal attempt, forcing the Andals to realize that their attempts were futile. The North would not bend to Southern will. It was one of the first lessons that Maester Uthor had taught him. It had always been one of his favorites. He was a Bolton. The blood of the First Men flowed in his veins. He was proud of his ancestors who did not yield to the Andal Invaders.

He knelt beneath the heart tree. He felt a sense of peace under the gaze of its red eyes. For the first time since arriving at the Dreadfort, Domeric Bolton finally felt like he was home.

"You do not like your father's plans."

He looked over his shoulder to see his aunt approaching, "I just wasn't expecting to leave so quickly."

"You see it as a slight."

"No," he stopped when he noticed the amused look in his aunt's eyes. He knew better to lie to her. He could never fool her. She said it was because he looked so much like his mother, and she had never been able to fool her when they were children.

"When he summoned me, I just thought it was because he believed me ready."

"That's the reason why he's sending you." She came up alongside him.

"I don't understand."

She smiled, "He trusts you enough to send you to Winterfell to secure this alliance."

He hadn't thought of it that way. Domeric in his pride had seen it as a reminder of his father's disapproval. That his father didn't think he was capable of becoming the next Lord of the Dreadfort. Domeric never considered it an opportunity.

She brushed his brown hair away from his equally brown eyes. "It was your glowing reviews from Lord Redfort that prompted your father to write to Winterfell."

This was the first he had heard of this. Domeric enjoyed his time immensely in the Vale, and did his best to be a proper guest and to show his gratitude to his host family. He knew by going there he was reflecting on his father, on his house, and of the North and did his best to only exemplify the best.

"I had no idea," he mumbled.

"Lord Redfort believed you had the making to be a Tourney champion at jousting," she observed, her tone turning teasing when she added. "Not that I'm surprised, you get your riding skills from our side of the family."

He smiled at that. Knowing how much his mother and Aunt Barbrey's house, the Ryswells prided themselves on their horses and their riding skills. It was said the best riders and horses could be found in the Rills, the home of the Ryswells.

"Why else did you think Lord Redfort would bestow upon you such a grand gift as that beautiful destrier you arrived on?"

Of course, his Aunt would notice Shadow, he thought with a smile.

The more he thought about it, the more sense she made. His father trusted him. He was confident that Domeric would be able to make a good impression on the Starks that would potentially lead to an alliance that the two powerful Northern families had never really had with one another.

An alliance in the form of a marriage between him and the Stark's eldest daughter, Domeric wasn't bothered at the thought. He understood at an early age that his father would arrange a marriage for him to secure an alliance with another noble family. It was his part to play that would help strengthen his house. Domeric considered it an honor.

"Now, no more fretting, Dom," his Aunt's voice broke him out of his musings.

"No more fretting," he agreed, turning to see her smiling at him.

"There's a good boy." She squeezed his shoulder.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

That night found Domeric with ample free time. He had no need to pack since he would be taking what he brought with him from the Vale; so he walked the halls of the Dreadfort, not knowing the next time he would get the chance. He found himself stopping in front of a large banner portraying the Bolton's infamous sigil: a flayed man on a blue field.

This was the legacy of his family. Whenever he was introduced, the subject of his family's history of flaying men would always come up. It was a morbid curiosity to everyone. They called it, 'brutal' or 'evil' but they were hungry for details about the practice. They wanted stories of the deed. They always asked if it was still practiced behind the walls of the Dreadfort.

Domeric viewed his family history with a mixture of pride and regret. He didn't want his family's name to be synonymous with this bloody, brutal practice. There was more to his family then that.

He traced the flayed man with his fingers. He couldn't help but wonder what would drive a person to commit such an act. He noticed a shadow had fallen over the banner; he didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"I thought I'd find you here," his father stated.

"Father," he bowed his head.

Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort came up alongside him. His pale eyes inspected the Bolton banner. "Your mother never cared for it either." He turned to him. "It's not for outsiders to accept or understand. It is for them to fear and respect."

"Yes, Father," Domeric replied, knowing his father expected him to agree.

"The flayed man serves as a warning to our enemies," he paused, "and to our allies of what happens if you cross House Bolton. And how far we will go to get what we deserve."

"Flaying is outlawed," Domeric pointed out.

"So is rape and murder," Roose countered darkly, "but still it happens." He gestured to the Bolton banner, "They fear the flayed man because they fear that it could be them." He shrugged, "whether it's still practiced or not is inconsequential in their mind."

Still practiced or not, stuck out in Domeric's mind looking over to his father to see his pale eyes were on him. As if daring him to speak up, challenging him, but Domeric didn't.

A look flickered over his father's face in the dark corridor that Domeric was sure was disappointment. The Lord of the Dreadfort abruptly began walking down the corridor, away from the banner and his son and heir.

Uncertainty rooted Domeric to his spot. Unsure, if he should follow his father or not. In the end, the decision wasn't his to make.

"You're nervous," his father called back.

"I am," Domeric followed after his father.

"You are ashamed of your family," his father said bluntly.

The coldness coupled with the conviction in his statement struck Domeric silent for a second, "I-I'm-"

"Don't lie to me," his father warned, spinning around to face him, his cloak rippled behind him.

"We are looked upon with disdain and mistrust by the other Northern houses," Lord Bolton shook his head, "Did I not answer Lord Stark's call when he rallied the Bannermen to the Usurper's cause? I fought and I bled at the Trident." He moved inside his study. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, providing light and warmth. Candles were burning on his desk, and on a few stands throughout the room, providing enough light to read and write.

Seeing the lit candles, Domeric knew this was where his father had been before finding him. He noticed the piles of parchment scattered about the desk. It brought back scattered memories for him as a boy, always finding his father in his study pouring over parchment.

"When Lord Stark called on his bannermen again this time to deal with the filthy Greyjoy. I followed and I fought." He took a seat behind his desk.

"We shed our share of blood for the Starks," He rested his hands on the top of the desk, "As much as the Mormonts, Umbers, and Karstarks, but still we are looked upon with suspicion."

Domeric sat down across from his father.

"Do you know why that is?"

Domeric had an inkling of what it might be, but thought it was better to have his father say it rather than him, so he shook his head.

"It is our ambition," Roose said plainly, "We are loyal, but that does not mean we must be satisfied with our position." His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. "Do you understand?"

"I do, Father," Domeric answered quickly.

His father offered a stiff nod, "Head back to your quarters," he instructed, "You're to be riding at first light." He gestured to the exit. "I won't have you ruin your first impression to the Starks by arriving haggard or late." He paused, "Neither will I allow you to sully the Bolton name."

"I won't, Father." He felt a slight chill at his father's harsh words and cold warning. He left his father's study, the last thing of his father he saw was his unconvinced expression.

When he was halfway down the corridor, he stopped and took a shaky breath. He wouldn't allow his father's indifference or distance affect him. When he settled his emotions, he looked up to see he was back where he started where the large Bolton banner hung.

Looking at the flayed man, and remembering his father's words from tonight, he swore to the Old Gods, that he'd prove to his father he was ready for this task, and that he would not fail.


	2. Eddard

Ned inspected the broken Bolton seal that had been pressed into the wax of another letter that the Lord of the Dreadfort had sent him. He sat quietly digesting the contents of this one. He put the letter on his desk in the study that was used for his business as Warden of the North, the Lord of Winterfell.

"Lord Bolton is persistent," Maester Luwin's observations broke through Ned's musings.

"Aye, he is," Ned looked expectantly at Maester Luwin. He had always trusted the Maester for his wise counsel. "He is asking that I foster his son and heir, Domeric Bolton here at Winterfell."

"A request not made lightly," Luwin noted, his hands were in the inside folds of his grey robes. "He is giving you the heir to his house. Not something to ignore given the families' icy history."

No, the Boltons have challenged the Starks on more than one occasion. The history between these two families has been built on suspicion and bloodshed that has made it difficult for any stability or friendship to take hold. Even with the fragile relationship between his house and house Bolton, Ned had no reason to mistrust Roose Bolton. He had answered Ned's call when he Ned brought the North into Robert's Rebellion.

Yet, Ned couldn't shake some of his reservations about the Lord of the Dreadfort. He had heard disquieting rumors in years past. Such as the tale that Roose Bolton still practiced the First Night. A tradition that has since been banished that use to be the practice of a Lord being able to bed the bride on her wedding night. Ned had no proof, but their existence troubled him.

This sudden gesture of goodwill was unexpected. Roose Bolton was asking for him to take his son and heir, essentially putting his family's future in Ned's hands. Fostering was common to form new friendships and alliances between the noble families. Winterfell and the Starks in the past have hosted wards and fostered noble children from various families of the North. The only time the Boltons had been involved had been when they gave hostages after the Starks put them down to ensure their good behavior. This wasn't the case this time.

"What do we know of the young Bolton?" Ned didn't know much of the heir to the Dreadfort. He was unable to recall even meeting the young man.

"He is older than Robb," Luwin answered, "He was a page for Lady Barbrey, his Aunt in Barrowton for a few years," Luwin continued, "Before fostering in the Vale for Lord Redfort."

The mention of the Vale brought a small smile to Ned's pensive expression. It reminded him of his own time being fostered in the Vale where he forged a lifelong friendship with Robert Baratheon under Jon Arryn's tutelage. It was those fond memories that stirred Ned to write his response to Lord Bolton.

He folded up his response before pressing the Stark direwolf seal into the parchment. He looked up to see Luwin's curious expression. "Send this back to the Dreadfort."

Luwin bowed his head, taking the offered letter, but made no attempt at asking Ned of his decision.

"Afterwards," Ned stopped him before he could leave, "Could you gather the children, they need to know about our pending guest."

"Of course, Lord Stark," A flicker of approval spread across the maester's face.

The benefits of this arrangement couldn't be ignored. A strong friendship between House Stark and House Bolton would only make the North stronger.

Ned leaned back in his seat. He wanted a similar friendship to be made between Robb and Domeric that he and Robert had formed so many years ago. They would both grow up to be powerful lords, Robb, the Lord of Winterfell, Warden and the North, while Domeric would become the next Lord of the Dreadfort. They would be able to rely and support one another, because winter is coming and a united north is a strong north. And that's what was needed to endure the approaching winter.

\-------

"A Bolton?" Arya made a face. "Don't they wear the flayed skins of their enemies?"

"Arya," Ned chastised his daughter. Every year, she reminded him more and more of his sister, Lyanna. She was a young spirited girl who didn't want to follow the more traditional pursuits of a noblewoman. Arya always wanted to fight with the boys. She wanted to learn swordplay and ride in tourneys. He admired her spirit and her audacity even though they had often caused him a few headaches.

He had informed his children of his decision to foster Domeric Bolton. Their reaction had not been ideal. They seemed suspicious and wary of having a Bolton with them. They hadn't forgotten the lessons that Maester Luwin had taught them about the rebellions the Boltons had started against the Starks.

"Why, Father?" Robb asked. Ned was proud of the young man his eldest was becoming. Robb worked hard in his studies, he looked after his siblings, and understood the responsibilities that would one day fall on him when he became the next Lord of Winterfell.

"This will strengthen our houses," he told them, looking to see his words had a minimal effect on his children. He then looked to Robb. "You and Domeric could form the same sort of friendship that I have with King Robert."

The mention of King Robert had gotten their attention. He knew how much they enjoyed some of the stories he would tell about his time in the Vale and the friendship he had with King Robert. They enjoyed the tales of Robert's Rebellion, especially the ones that featured King Robert wielding his famous and massive war hammer.

"He is around your age, Robb," Ned reminded him. He knew if Robb gave Domeric a chance, a friendship could start, which would be good for both of them.

Robb still didn't seem convinced, but he nodded his head. Robb didn't want to disappoint him.

"When is he arriving?" That was Sansa.

She was a beautiful girl who desired to be the perfect genteel lady. She had an enthusiastic interest in music, poetry, dancing, and embroidery. She was captivated by the songs from the southern bards that told of adventures featuring handsome princes and honorable knights. He didn't like how she believed in these tales and songs and took them as truth. Since Ned understood how hard the world really was. She was born in the summer, and needed to be strong to survive the harsh winter that would come soon to the North.

"In a few days," Ned answered.

"How long will he be staying?" Bran asked. According to Cat, he had recently been spending more time climbing and exploring Winterfell. He craved excitement and when not exploring could be found playing with Arya in the tiltyard as the two would pretend to be knights. He too dreamed of being a knight.

"A few years," It was expected for Domeric to finish his studies and training at Winterfell. 

"I expect you all to treat him as family and welcome him to Winterfell," Ned looked over his children. "He is our guest. Rudeness will not be tolerated. Anyone who treats him poorly will be held accountable and properly punished." He was pleased to see his words had gotten through to his children. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, father." They chorused.

\----

The day of Domeric Bolton's arrival was finally here. Ned had instructed his children to be dressed and ready to welcome their guest when he arrived to the gates of Winterfell. He was pleased to see his children were all lined up, all except Rickon, their youngest remained inside.

Theon was also there. He was a few years older than Robb, and was a ward to Winterfell. It fell on Ned to take in the young boy after his father; Balon had rebelled against King Robert. Theon's presence in Winterfell was to make sure Balon Greyjoy remained on his best behavior. Even though, he was a hostage, Ned tried to treat the Heir to the Iron Islands as a member of his family. 

Jon too had taken a spot beside Theon. He stood still with his attention shifting from his siblings in front of him to the main gates of Winterfell. Ned remembered him being quiet when he had told the children about Domeric's pending arrival. Jon hadn't any questions or anything to add. He looked resigned at the notion of a noble ward coming to Winterfell, Ned could understand Jon's trepidation, nobles had a tendency of looking down at bastards. However, Ned would watch and make certain Jon was treated fairly by Domeric during his time with them. 

Maester Luwin stood behind Ned and Cat, as was Rodrik Cassel, master-at-arms and castellan. No doubt, Rodrik was curious in the new ward from the Dreadfort knowing that he would help to train Domeric in swordplay. Jory Cassel was also there, the nephew of Rodrik and Captain of the Guards for House Stark. With him were several of the guards, some of them were holding the banners of House Stark.

There was also Hullen, the master of horse. Septa Mordane who served as the tutor for Sansa and Arya was also there, standing behind the Stark Children, and making sure they were on their best behavior. As well as countless others who were curious in seeing the heir of the Dreadfort.

Lastly, he turned to Cat. She looked radiant in the afternoon sun. She had been suspicious about the abrupt offer that Lord Bolton made. Ned knew Cat never cared for Roose Bolton in her limited interactions with him. She saw this as one of his schemes to try to advance his family. When he informed her of his decision to take Domeric, she supported Ned and he knew she would be nothing but the best host for the Bolton heir during his time in Winterfell.

She must have sensed him watching her, turning to him; she offered him one of her beautiful smiles before taking his hand, and giving it a soft squeeze. He returned her smile. He had been blessed when it came to his marriage with her. It was difficult and frustrating at times like all marriages, but he knew she was the only one for him. He loved her. She loved him. It was a blessing he knew that most arranged marriages never were able to cultivate

The sound of thundering hooves broke through to his musings and brought his attention to the open gates of Winterfell. A lone rider came trotting in, following behind him were two more riders, and they were carrying the Bolton banners: a flayed man on a blue field.

Ned heard Arya mumble something to Bran, but was unable to pick up on what exactly she said. Whatever it was it brought a snicker out of Bran. He turned to them, and they sobered immediately with Arya bowing her head knowing she had been caught.

Turning back to the riders, Ned watched as a wagon came lumbering through the gates, which was carrying the belongings that the young Bolton brought with him.

The lead rider was finely dressed, and riding atop a beautiful black destrier. It allowed Ned to recognize him as the heir of the Dreadfort. His first impressions were that he didn't resemble his father in appearance. He had brown hair that fell just above his shoulders and inquisitive brown eyes. And when he turned to the Stark family, he offered them a smile. Ned had never known the Lord of the Dreadfort to smile.

Hullen was quick to instruct one of his stable boys to tend to Domeric's horse. The young man easily got off of his horse, and approached them. He was quick to bow his head, before he knelt to the ground. His knee sunk into the mud.

"I am Domeric Bolton, son of loyal bannermen, Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort." He kept his head down out of respect. "Lord Stark, I am honored to be here and thankful for you to opening up your home to me."

"Please, stand," Ned encouraged him. The young man before him seemed nothing like his stoic and cold father. It was something that came as a pleasant surprise to the Warden of the North. It made him a little more confident that his family would get along well with the Bolton heir.

It could be an act, but Ned doubted it. Despite, his behavior being nothing like his father. He seemed genuine in his sincerity and with his smile. Ned wasn't going to doubt him because he was being polite and kind. Domeric deserved better then to be greeted with suspicion.

Domeric obeyed. He quickly got to his feet, to show his tall stature and lean frame.

"Welcome to Winterfell," he greeted his newest ward. "We are happy to have you." He turned to his wife, Cat who was standing beside him. "This is my wife, Catelyn Stark."

"Lady Stark," Domeric bowed his head, taking her hand and kissing the back of it.

"Welcome, Domeric," Cat smiled, "We hope you will enjoy your time here."

"This is my eldest, Robb."

The two young men eyed one another. Domeric then ducked his head, "I hope that my time here will bring about friendship between us."

"I do as well," Robb replied smoothly, offering him his hand.

Domeric smiled and shook it.

"This is Sansa, our eldest daughter," Ned continued.

"It is an honor, Lady Sansa," taking her hand and just like with Cat, he kissed the back of it.

"Thank you, Domeric." She smiled and blushed, "It's a pleasure to meet you as well."

Ned noted the interaction and the looks between Domeric and Sansa. He noticed the small smile on Cat's lips. He put that in the back of his mind as he finished the introductions for Domeric Bolton, who then greeted Bran and Arya warmly.

"I'm sure you must be tired from your travel," Ned said, "I'll have Robb take you to where you will be staying."

"Thank you, Lord Stark," Domeric replied politely.

Ned watched as Robb led Domeric into the castle. The others soon dispersed. Bran and Arya going into the castle together, talking about continuing a game they had started. Sansa went back inside with Jeyne Poole, the two girls talking in hushed whispers and giggles.

"It seems it's not just fostering that Lord Bolton was interested in," Cat said wryly.


	3. Robb

"There you are." Robb found the heir to the Dreadfort in the Stark library. The young man was sitting at one of the tables, candles burning bright amidst a pile of books and old tomes.

He looked up. A look of embarrassment covered his face. "I'm sorry." He moved to get up, but Robb stopped him.

"It's alright," Robb waved him off. "It's just that you left the feast abruptly." 

The feast had barely ended when Domeric had excused himself. Before Robb retired to his chambers, Father had tasked him with making sure Domeric found his way back to his quarters.

Robb had gone off to try to find their guest. He had tried to recruit Jon and Theon, but the former declined while the latter thought it was beneath him; leaving it for Robb alone. Thankfully, it didn't prove to be a challenging endeavor. Robb had found Domeric in the library after remembering the Dreadfort heir mentioning his penchant for reading.

Domeric stiffened. "I was tired of Greyjoy's japes."

"You heard them?" Robb inwardly cringed. He knew at once what Domeric was referring to. Theon had made several jokes at the expense of the Bolton family and heir during the feast. Robb, who had not found them funny, had hoped all the same they had not traveled down the table to their guest. He had been proven wrong.

"You're friends with him." It wasn't a question.

"I am," Robb confirmed. This was not the first time his friendship with Theon had been questioned. Jon didn't get along with the Heir to the Iron Islands either.

Domeric took the news with an impassive look before turning back to the opened book on his table.

Robb took to the nearest seat at the table having him sit to Domeric's left. "What are you reading?"

"The Battle of the Weeping Water," Domeric must have noticed the look of confusion that came to Robb's face before clarifying, "It was during the time of the Andal's invading Westeros."

"Aye," Robb studied hard during his lessons with Maester Luwin and tried his best to remember all of the history and information that the Maester taught them. He enjoyed the history of his family, and prided himself on trying to know everything he could.

"With King Theon Stark," The details were slowly coming to him. The name wasn't lost on Robb and it didn't seem to be lost on Domeric either since they had just been talking about another Theon.

"He fought with the Boltons," Domeric finished, a hint of pride in his voice. "They crushed Argos Sevenstar and his Andal host."

Robb was nodding. He had always enjoyed the tale and it seemed he wasn't the only one. He particularly liked what happened next in the story. "King Theon raised his own fleet and crossed the Narrow Sea to deliver his retribution." Robb liked the idea of the fury of the Winter King leading him to the shores of Andalos to show what happened when you crossed the North.

"It was Boltons and Starks that defeated Argos," Domeric noted, "their forces alone were enough to soundly defeat his host."

"A testament of what our families can do when united," Robb pointed out.

"Aye," Domeric happily agreed.

In the silence that followed, Robb reflected on what was said. Was this why his father had agreed to foster Domeric at Winterfell? Despite the troubled history between the houses, Robb knew that the potential benefits of such an alliance could not be ignored. Their families had repelled an Andals invasion together. The Boltons commanded a strong and loyal host, one of the largest within the North. It made sense to want to bring them closer into the fold.

It was with those last thoughts of reflection did Robb's attention return to his current surroundings to see Domeric had gone back to his book, but he did notice a distant look in his eyes. It made Robb wonder if he was thinking along similar lines about an alliance between their families.

"You spent time in the Vale?" Robb asked the obvious. He needed a way to try to find more about Winterfell's newest guest. That, and he didn't like the silence.

"I did."

"What was the Vale Like?" Robb was genuinely curious. He had only left the Borders of the North to visit his mother's family in Riverrun and that was when he had been younger. The few times he left Winterfell had been to travel with his father to visit the other houses of the North to better learn about the families and places that would one day fall on him to rule.

Domeric brightened at the question. A smile broke through his impassive expression while his eyes shimmered, looking lost in memories. "It's a beautiful land that in some ways reminds me of the North."

"The people are good hearted, proud of their history, bound by honor and duty, even if they worship the wrong gods," Domeric's smile widened at the last part.

Robb laughed at that.

"The First Men still live in the Vale," Domeric observed, "However, they are not like us. They have lost their honor when they lost their lands and power. They dwell in the mountains bitter at what was taken from them when the Andals came. These mountain clans are primitive. They settle on raiding from nearby villages and have no qualms in bringing violence to the innocent in their futile attempts at vengeance."

"Did you come across them during your time in the Vale?" They sounded nothing like the fierce, but loyal mountain clans that Robb was familiar with that resided north of Winterfell, but more like the wildlings who slipped past the Wall. Most of them didn't try to settle or adjust to life in the North instead they pillaged and killed all they came across. 

"I did," Domeric answered after a few seconds of hesitation. A pained look came across his face hinting at what sort of interaction he had had with them.

"You stayed with Lord Redfort?" Robb thought it better to change the subject.

"As strong as stone," Domeric recited the Redfort's family words with a smile. "He is a good man. I was honored to stay with him and his family. He treated me like one of his sons who I consider my brothers after my time with them."

Robb could detect the wistfulness in Domeric's tone. "Will you write to them?"

Domeric nodded, "I plan to."

"Hopefully, you will look back at your stay here at Winterfell with the same happiness as your time in the Vale," Robb found that he meant those words.

"I do as well."

\----

"The little leech lord isn't what I expected," Theon smirked, standing beside Robb as the two watched Domeric and Jon sparring with blunted swords under the watchful eye of Winterfell's master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel.

"Don't call him that," Robb warned his friend. He knew Domeric had already taken a dislike to Theon based on his earlier behavior at the welcoming feast a few days prior. It was one of his friend's worst traits: his need to make jokes at someone else's expense. A habit of his that had led to more than one argument between them as well as between Theon and Jon.

Theon ignored him. "How many leeches do you think he brought with him from the Dreadfort?"

Robb didn't get the chance to chastise his friend as the fighting drew his interest. His brother having just successfully disarmed Domeric.

"I yield," Domeric took the defeat in stride. "You're quite good."

"Thanks," Jon replied. "You fought well too."

"No need to lie." Domeric picked up his sword. "I know where my talents lie."

"I meant no offense," Jon apologized, bowing his head.

Robb had noticed that his brother had been acting differently since Domeric's arrival to Winterfell. Jon had been keeping his distance. Something Robb didn't like at all. He considered his brother his closest friend as well as Theon and didn't like how he was rarely to be found now. 

He wondered if Jon was doing it in an attempt to not disrespect the Heir to the Dreadfort. Since many nobles did not take kindly to being in the presence of a bastard. To Robb's surprise Domeric didn't seem to be one of them. He never seemed to be bothered by Jon's presence. In their limited interactions together, Domeric had always spoken to Jon kindly and always asked how he was. 

It had been Domeric who had asked to spar with Jon. It was an offer that wasn't rooted in malice which was sadly often the case when a noble wanted to fight someone of a lower status. No, his offer was made in an attempt to be friendly.

Hopefully, Jon would pick up on this and stop shying away from the heir to the Dreadfort or disappear whenever Robb was with him. If his brother didn't, then Robb was determined to seek him out and to break through his brother's stubbornness. To make it clear that Robb was expecting Jon to still be with him as often as he could.

"Relax, Jon," Domeric seemed to have sensed Jon's uneasiness. "There is no need to apologize."

Jon nodded stiffly.

"That's enough for today," Rodrik called.

Domeric looked relieved that it was over. He handed over his sword and thanked Ser Rodrik for the time. Jon stayed behind to help Ser Rodrik put away the equipment and gear as part of his duties. Theon had slipped away, claiming with a smirk that he was going to the brothel to work up his appetite before dinner. That meant it was just Robb and Domeric heading back to the castle.

"Lord Domeric," Rodrik called for him.

"Yes, ser?" Domeric turned back towards Winterfell's Master-at-arms. 

"After your lessons with Maester Luwin you are expected to return to the yard to continue your training."

"I will, ser," Domeric acknowledged Rodrik's reminder with a nod.

Robb knew what that training entailed. During Domeric's stay here it was expected for him to continue his training in jousting. Training he had begun during his stay in the Vale. According to his father, Domeric had taken to the skill so well that it was one of Lord Bolton's only conditions of letting his son come to Winterfell was that he needed to continue to practice.

Robb waited for Domeric before the two made their way inside the castle for their lessons with Maester Luwin.

"I envy you," Domeric admitted suddenly. "Your siblings and the family you have here."

"I am blessed," Robb agreed. Smiling at how his Father referred to them as his pack of wolves and instilling in them the importance to stand by one another: To be loyal to one another even when it's easier to be mean. A lesson that was not always heeded, Robb knew all he had to do was look at his sisters, Sansa and Arya, and the growing arguments that they found themselves getting into.

"Thank you," Robb said, "You don't have to be kind to my brother, but you are."

"You know I have a bastard brother."

That came as a surprise to Robb. "Really?"

"Yes," Domeric confirmed. "I heard rumors before I left for the Vale about him when I asked my father he-" Domeric ducked his head, shielding his expression from Robb. "He confirmed it, but forbade me to seek him out."

There seemed to be more to the story, but Robb didn't want to press. He wasn't surprised by Lord Bolton forbidding Domeric to see his bastard brother. Robb understood the stigma that bastards received. And knew the situation with Jon living with them as their brother was the exception and not the standard practice of most noble bastards excluding Dorne.

"Do you know where he is?" Robb could tell Domeric wanted to form some sort of relationship with his bastard brother. Even in the short amount of time together, Robb understood how Domeric viewed family and how he longed for siblings like with what he experienced in the Vale with Lord Redfort's sons and now at Winterfell with Robb and his siblings.

"No." Domeric answered, "Father refused to tell me. He knew if I knew I'd try to seek him out."

Robb detected the bitterness in Domeric's voice. "Perhaps, he does so for a reason."

"Perhaps," but Domeric didn't sound convinced.

Robb couldn't blame him. He too had his doubts about Lord Bolton's intentions.

However, Robb knew enough about Lord Bolton from his father and mother to know that the man never made a decision lightly or without reason. He was shielding Domeric from his bastard brother for a reason. Whether, it was something selfish such as to keep the Bolton name unblemished without the presence of this bastard or to keep his son safe from another trying to lay claim to the Dreadfort.

Robb didn't know.

"I don't even know his name," Domeric's words broke Robb from his musings, "But one day I will know it and him."


	4. Sansa

"He's so plain looking." Beth Cassel pointed out

"He looks better the further away you are." Jeyne mocked.

This had the two girls giggling but Sansa remained quiet.

She, and her friends Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel were watching Winterfell's newest ward, Domeric Bolton practice his jousting from the covered bridge between the Great Keep and the Armory. He was riding a beautiful destrier, lance in hand as he went through a simple riding routine with Master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel shouting instructions.

Sansa had barely spoken to the Bolton heir since he arrived to Winterfell little more than a week ago. Looking down onto the yard, she spotted she wasn't the only one watching. She spotted her little sister Arya with their half-brother Jon were down by the yard watching the Bolton heir atop his horse smoothly trotting through the course while landing nice hits onto the practice dummies.

"Who would want a Bolton?" Jeyne scrunched her nose in disgust. "That family is so dark and cruel."

In Sansa's limited interactions with Domeric, he had been nothing but kind and polite to her. 

"Who wants to be protected under the cloak of a flayed man?" Beth added, referring to the Bolton's sigil, the infamous flayed man. A testament of the dark practice the family once proudly took part of, and some whispered they still did behind the closed doors of the Dreadfort.

"I doubt my Father would allow such a man within his home," Sansa silenced both of her friends. 

The two had the decency to look abashed at the criticism.

"Of course, Sansa," Jeyne quickly agreed.

"We meant no insult to your father," Beth added hastily.

"But you did mean to insult, Lord Bolton's son?" Sansa pointed out.

"It was nothing serious," Jeyne tried to defend. "We were just having fun."

"Perhaps," Sansa wasn't quite done with them. "However, I'd advise you to be careful with where you say such things. My father would not take kindly to having his guest insulted in his or their presence."

The two girls traded looks of horror at the thought of facing an angry Lord of Winterfell.

"We will," Jeyne swore while Beth bobbed her head up and down in agreement.

Sansa took her words and frightened appearance with a nod. "Good."

\---

Sansa had finished her lessons with Septa Mordane and was heading back to her room before dinner. She was walking by herself as Jeyne and Beth had gone off together after the lesson. They told her they'd meet her at dinner. She was certain they were still sore with her for chastising them over their treatment of Domeric. That didn't bother Sansa. She knew she had done the right thing in speaking up for the Bolton heir.

She may not have known or liked Domeric Bolton, but he was a guest of her family's. To her that meant he needed to be treated with respect and all of the proper courtesies. One should never regret being kind. One should never feel ashamed for being polite.

A warm, soothing sound broke through her musings. Perking her head up at the music she heard that was traveling through the corridor. She recognized the sound to be coming from a harp. Curious, she followed the trail of music wondering where the source was coming from.

Turning the corner, she noticed an opened door, an orange glow stretching out of the room and lighting up the surrounding corridor. Moving closer, she realized that this was the guest chambers of Domeric Bolton.

Sansa remained rooted where she stood. Just outside of the light that shone from his room. She wanted to dismiss the notion that it was him playing such music, but she chastised herself for such a thing. If she thought that then was she any different then Jeyne and Beth? They only saw him as a Bolton, heir to a dark house and history.

Mustering her courage, Sansa stepped into the light to look into the room to confirm her suspicion. She found it. Sitting on the windowsill looking out the window, Domeric Bolton plucked the strings of his harp. So lost in either thought or tune or maybe both, he didn't even notice her presence. He continued to play the entrancing sound, skillfully picking the right strings to create a harmonious sound that filled Sansa with warmth.

Standing awkwardly in the doorway, she wasn't sure if she should slink away before he noticed. Uncertainty gripped her for a moment before making up her mind. She cleared her throat announcing her presence.

He reacted instantly. Startled, his fingers roughly plucked the strings making a noise that made Sansa cringe. Shaking his head as if to snap him out of whatever self inducing daze he was in. He turned to her. Surprise covered his face, looking at her with wide eyes and open mouth.

Sansa found the sight comical and couldn't help but giggle.

That seemed to snap him out of it. He instantly schooled his expression into a more serious look, closing his mouth in the process. "Lady Sansa," He greeted her, standing up from his seat to bow his head in her direction. "Forgive me, your arrival was unexpected."

Sansa took his words with a kind smile. She offered him a curtsey and her own apology. "Forgive me, Lord Domeric, I didn't mean to startle you."

"You may call me Domeric, Lady Sansa."

She liked that. "Very well," she agreed, "but only if you call me Sansa." She didn't think it would be improper. After all he would be a guest in their home for some time, and sometimes the best courtesy one can give to another is to drop the more formal ones in the spirit of friendship.

"Sansa," he inclined his head towards her.

She found that she liked how his warm, rich voice said her name.

"Please come in, Sansa." He gestured to the chair by the roaring fire in the hearth.

"Thank you," she hesitated only for a moment, knowing that some would find it improper for her to be in his room without a proper chaperone. Sansa didn't think it would be a bad thing if she only stayed for a few minutes. Besides, it would've been rude to refuse.

He didn't join her by the fireplace instead he sat back down on the stone windowsill.

"I didn't know you played," Sansa gestured to the harp.

He smiled. In that smile, Sansa couldn't help but notice how it gave him a rather handsome look. She then blushed at that realization. Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice. His attention was on his harp.

"Aye," he answered, "I've been playing it for years."

"Did you learn it in the Vale?" Sansa had a hard time believing he would learn it while in the Dreadfort under the imposing presence of his father, Lord Roose Bolton.

"No," he shook his head, "I started it before I left."

"Oh," Sansa couldn't quite hide her surprise.

That got a chuckle out of Domeric. "You don't think my father would allow me to play such an instrument?"

Embarrassment seized Sansa with the fear that she had been rude to him by unintentionally insulting his father. "I'm sorry," she hastily apologized, "I meant no offense."

"Its fine, Sansa," he soothed her. "None was given." He sent her a reassuring look before turning back to his harp. "Your reaction was expected. My father was not keen on the idea, but my Maester convinced him." He turned to her, a smile on his lips, "Something that I'm grateful for."

She returned his smile. "You're quite good." She noticed his disbelieving look at her compliment. "It's the reason I came," Sansa admitted. "I heard this beautiful sound and I just had to follow it."

"Thank you, Sansa," he said sincerely. "You honor me."

"Can you sing?"

He laughed, "Oh no, I'm afraid I'm dreadful." He playfully plucked a few strings eliciting sweet, soft vibrations to echo within the room.

Watching his fingers play the strings, Sansa noticed the harp had fine engravings on it. The head of the harp had a beautifully carved horse in mid gallop.

"A gift from my Aunt," Domeric noticed where her eyes were. "She always gets a few songs out of me whenever she visits."

"It's a fine gift," she praised.

He looked at the harp with a look of satisfaction, "It is," he agreed, "She spoils me." He admitted, hesitance pulled at his features. "She says it's because she sees so much of her sister in me."

Sansa knew about Domeric's mother and how she died when he was a boy. Septa Mordane had made sure to tell them before Domeric's arrived to avoid any embarrassment.

"She must have been a great person," Sansa found herself saying. 

"She was." 

"Would you play me something?" Sansa had found his music so moving. Even the few strings he lazily plucked now were warm and melodic.

Domeric seemed taken aback by the request. Looking up from the harp towards her, he looked to be mulling it over, before his brown eyes gave off a slight gleam. "Can you sing?"

"I can." Septa Mordane had always said she had a nice voice. However, she never sung to anyone outside the septa, or her family. It was something intimate.

"I'll play a song," He offered, "but only if you sing."

"How do you know I can sing well?" She found herself asking.

"Your brother told me," he answered honestly.

"Oh," she would have to thank Robb for that later.

"Do we have a deal?"

She found her hands fidgeting in her lap. She tried to stop them by moving them to smooth invisible wrinkles in her dress. Sansa looked up to see Domeric was looking at her, his eyes brown and friendly, a smile tugging at his lips. Seeing him smile for her caused a sudden flutter in her stomach.

"Yes."

"Wonderful," he sounded pleased that she had agreed. After giving a few suggestions, they finally decided on a song that they both knew.

Sansa closed her eyes to prepare herself to sing. She found it more comforting, seeing as she could pretend she was alone. She took a breath to calm her quivering stomach and to soothe her nerves. Soon, she could hear the harp being plucked. The warmth of the tune swept aside her anxiety while the rich, pleasant tone had her humming along.

She then sang. Reciting the words while keeping her voice in tune with the rhythm, careful to make sure she didn't miss a beat. The words and music weaved together effortlessly to only enhance the song's beauty. She found herself disappointed when the last line was sung. She hadn't wanted the song to end. Those few minutes were indescribable to her.

"You have a lovely voice, Sansa."

She opened her eyes, "Thank you, Domeric." She felt her face heating up. She ducked her head to keep him from seeing the creeping blush that was sure coming to her cheeks.

"There you are." The stern voice of Septa Mordane snapped Sansa's attention towards the doorway. Hands on her hips, her thin mouth pressed in a firm line while her sharp eyes turned from Sansa to Domeric. An unreadable expression covered her face.

"Septa Mordane," Domeric stood to his feet to greet her.

She sent him a hard, piercing look to keep him quiet. She then turned to Sansa. "Dinner is nearly ready."

"I'll come at once," Sansa found herself disappointed that her time with Domeric was over.

"I'll see to that, myself," Septa Mordane didn't trust her.

Sansa turned back to Domeric. "Thank you for the song, Domeric." She curtseyed to him.

Domeric smiled before bowing his head. "Hopefully, it won't be the last."

Septa Mordane made a noise from the back of her throat.

"With proper supervision," Domeric amended with a sheepish look.

Sansa smiled at that before following the Septa out of the room but not before looking over her shoulder towards Domeric to see him still smiling at her. She felt the softest of flutters in her chest and in that moment, she remembered what Beth and Jeyne had said about him, and realizing just how wrong they had been about Domeric Bolton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Domeric did play the harp. I can't make that up.
> 
> I decided to age up Beth Cassel slightly so that she would be closer in age with Sansa.
> 
> Thanks to all those who've shown their support for this story through leaving 'kudos' and reviews. I appreciate it.


	5. Domeric

Domeric groaned.

He found himself with his back on the ground, looking up at the grey skies above Winterfell. He heard voices around him, but his ears were ringing so he couldn't quite discern whose voices they belonged to or what they were saying. Pain bloomed in his chest from where the lance had struck him.

"Lord Domeric?"

Domeric recognized the voice before the face. Blinking up to see Jon Snow was staring down at him with a concerned look. "It's Domeric," he wheezed.

"Domeric," He said hesitantly, "Are you hurt?"

"Only a little," Domeric made a move to sit up, regretting that movement as pain wracked his body. He gritted his teeth and continued until he was in a sitting position where he let out a tired breath.

"You didn't listen, Domeric," Ser Rodrik was standing in front of him with his arms crossed.

Domeric had exerted all of his energy and strength, and hadn't taken Ser Rodrik's advice to stop when he did. In his pride, he thought he could do one more tilt. He was proven wrong, failing and falling hard to a skilled Stark guardsman.

"No, I didn't," Domeric admitted.

Ser Rodrik didn't look impressed that he acknowledged his mistake. "If this was a battlefield, you'd be skewered, bleeding in the mud and left to die." He pulled at his grey whiskers, "That is unless the knight meant to finish the job."

"I'll do better," Domeric pushed away that haunting possibility.

Lord Redfort boasted that he had the skill to be a tourney champion in the south. Domeric had the skills to ride and just needed to hone his talent with lance. His father after listening to Lord Redfort's report insisted that Domeric continue such work while fostering at Winterfell.

Domeric was thankful his father wasn't here now to see his son and heir on the ground. The pale flayed man on his armor dented and dirtied.

"Not today," Ser Rodrik told him gruffly. "We're done," he waved off an approaching page. "No, Domeric will tend to his own horse and weapons."

"You don't have to stay, Jon," Domeric looked to see Jon was still crouched down beside him while the others had left the training yard.

Jon shrugged. "I don't mind." He stood back up before offering Domeric a hand.

He gladly took it, as Jon helped pull him to his feet where Domeric felt more pain and soreness within his chest and along his back from where he had hit the ground, "Thank you."

Domeric envied the Starks. The strong bonds the siblings had forged with one another that were even extended to their half brother, Jon. It reminded him of Lord Redfort sons, all of whom he considered his brothers after his years spent in the Vale. Lord Redfort had married three times and only two of his sons were brothers who shared the same mother, but the four of them never treated or acted like they were anything else, but true brothers.

He saw how the Stark children interacted with Jon especially Robb and Arya. Domeric knew if he was unkind to Jon then he'd risk souring his relationship with the other Starks. Not that he wanted to, who was he to be rude to Jon, because he was a bastard when Domeric too had a bastard brother.

My brother is out there, Domeric thought. Ignored or forgotten, he wasn't sure, but Domeric would change that. True born or bastard, he would not turn his back on him. That was why he treated Jon the way he did.

I will treat my brother the same way. Domeric had made that vow in front of the imposing weirwood tree in Winterfell's Godswood. He prayed to the old gods just for the opportunity.

Jon had already proven a helpful friend by providing Domeric a better understanding and learning more about his potential betrothed, Sansa Stark. There was not much he knew about her and his interactions with her had been limited his first days in Winterfell.

Wanting to know more, he went to Robb and Jon, conscious to be casual and subtle with his questions about their sister and not wanting to draw any suspicion or attention. He didn't go to Bran or Arya believing them too young and unreliable to provide him with anything useful.

When he had been told about his father's plan to secure a betrothal between him and Sansa, Domeric had been resigned to the decision. He knew nothing about the Stark's eldest daughter. He had been pleasantly surprised when he first spotted her. Even young, on the cusp of womanhood, she was pretty with her long copper curls, shimmering blue eyes, and pretty smiles.

He had no doubt that when she became older she would be the most beautiful woman in Westeros. She was only a few years younger than him. He was thankful that the age difference was not worse. Domeric would've found the task a bit awkward if she had been Arya's age.

"I need to thank you, Jon."

"Pardon?" Jon asked.

"About your sister," Domeric clarified, "You were right. She has a lovely voice."

"Aye," Jon agreed, but his grey eyes were hooded, looking him over carefully. "I heard about Septa Mordane," he stopped there waiting for Domeric to respond and clarify.

Domeric held up his arms. "It was only a song," He stood straighter, "I would dare no insult on either your sister or your family's honor especially within your home." He understood Jon's suspicion and it proved another example of how the Starks looked after one another including Jon who was a Stark by blood if not name.

"I am a guest in your family's home," Domeric pointed out. He'd say on my honor as a Bolton that nothing had happened between him and Sansa, but he wasn't certain that would support his words or intentions given his family's history.

That seemed to placate Jon because he nodded slowly, "Good." He was looking at him critically, but didn't seem to have the courage to ask the question he wanted to ask. Since he was a bastard and Domeric, a lord and heir to a noble, ancient house in the north. It was not Jon's place to ask such bold questions on a lord's honor.

"I didn't plan for it," Domeric told him. Knowing he had guessed the question right by Jon's reaction.

Domeric understood the suspicion based on the convenience. After all, after he asked Jon about his sister and learning that she could sing only for him to find out about Septa Mordane catching them in his room with no chaperone. Him playing his harp and while she was singing.

"I was playing when she found me," Domeric admitted, "I was not expecting her arrival."

He moved over to where Shadow was, his destrier was lingering in the training yard, uncertain what to do since Domeric had been knocked off. He greeted the horse with a small smile, gently brushing Shadow's mane before gingerly taking the reins and guiding him towards the stable.

"You may not believe me, Jon, but I miss my home." He walked slowly as to not further upset the soreness that he felt settling into his muscles and bones.

To the rest of Westeros it was the infamous Dreadfort, the seat of his family, where they kept the flayed skins of defeated enemies in secret rooms. To Domeric it was simply home.

"So you played the harp?" Jon asked respectfully, but was still unable to hide the dismay in his tone.

"Yes," Domeric answered, "It is at the Dreadfort where I have the strongest memories of my mother."

So on the days when the ache of missing his mother was too great he would play his harp. The music helped drift him away back towards sweet memories of her. In those peaceful moments, she was more than a memory or a shade of herself.

Then Sansa had appeared.

He had not been expecting her, but he'd be lying to himself if he said, he hadn't enjoyed their time together. It sounded foolish, and perhaps it was, but in that short time with her, talking and smiling, singing and playing music together, Domeric thought the potential betrothal between them could be more of a gift then a burden.

Do not stray, Domeric stopped himself before his thoughts lingered too far ahead of himself. Such thoughts were an unwelcome distraction. The topic of a betrothal hasn't even been broached let alone agreed.

It was a nice first step, nothing more.

Domeric led Shadow into his pen, closing the gate so as to remove the horse's saddle.

"I don't know my mother," Jon confessed softly.

Domeric looked over to see Jon was leaning on the railing of Shadow's pen. His face forlorn, while his tone was wistful.

"I'm not even sure if she's alive or dead," he ducked his head, "Or if she knows or even cares about me."

Does my brother think this too? Domeric wondered quietly, not liking the idea of his brother feeling so dejected especially as Domeric saw how much it bothered Jon.

You'll know your family soon enough, brother, Domeric would make sure of it.

Turning his attention back to Jon Snow."You may not have your mother, Jon," Domeric picked his words carefully, "But you do have a Father and brothers and sisters who love you." Jon had looked up at that. "It isn't perfect, I know, but it's still a family who cares for you and will protect you."

"You're right," Jon nodded, "I am thankful for them," he said quickly as if he was afraid he sounded ungrateful, "but I can't help but want to know who she was."

"I'm sure someday you will, Jon."

\-------

After finishing up in the stables, Domeric and Jon went their separate ways. Domeric headed back to his chambers to prepare for dinner that even fall with the Starks. He was hopeful he could scrub himself clean and rest shortly before his presence was required.

A noise broke through his thoughts on his coveted rest. He was approaching his chambers. It was when he noticed that his door was open did he hear the noise again. It was coming from within.

Carefully, Domeric stepped inside the doorway of his chambers. Looking inside to see the trunk by his bed was opened and that was he spotted a small someone going through his things. The messy dark hair and scrawny body made him realize who it was at once.

"I keep the flayed skins in my other trunk."

The words might as well have been a bolt of lightning since they seemed to shock Arya Stark.

She froze where she was, crouched in front of his trunk. Looking over her shoulder, her young face marred in fear at being caught by him. Her eyes darting to the doorway he was currently standing in. No doubt, she was wondering if she could slip past him to make her escape.

"Is this a Stark tradition?" He crossed his arms, "Because if so, I'm afraid I wasn't told."

Arya ducked her head. "I'm sorry."

He should have been angrier. Yet, he couldn't even muster the feelings to be mad. Domeric had a soft spot for the wild Stark girl. He had barely been around her, but when he did he could only smile or laugh at the whirlwind of energy she was.

"Why are you in here?" He moved into his room, but remained between her and the doorway. Domeric may not have been angry with her, but he wasn't going to let her dart out of his room without so much as an explanation of what she was doing here.

She chewed on her lower lip. "I shouldn't tell."

"I disagree," he countered, "You're in my room. I caught you going through my things," he pointed out, "if anything telling me the truth may help me decide whether or not I should tell your Septa." He let the threat hang.

Domeric wasn't actually going to tell Septa Mordane. The woman had been suspicious and cold towards him since she came upon him and Sansa. He was certain the old woman was watching him closely to make sure that incident didn't repeat itself.

His threat seemed to work. Arya winced at the mention of the Septa. "It was Theon."

Why was he not surprised? Domeric hid his frown from her. He felt the prickle of annoyance in his gut. The arrogant ironborn ward had been rude to Domeric since he arrived. Theon had made some snide comments about his family and his father at the welcome feast.

Domeric had ignored them. He hated them, but they were not new to him.

It would not serve him to make a scene in the Great Hall. To bluster angrily at perceived family insults in front of everyone. No, take them with a nod, and a look of indifference. But do not forget them. An outburst would be quick and pointless. His time for retribution would come, and it would be on his terms not Theon's. Then the ironborn would know not to cross the Boltons.

He had only let slip of them to Robb because he wanted to gauge the Stark heir on Theon. Domeric had been disappointed to learn that Robb considered the ward a friend.

"What did he say?" Domeric questioned the youngest Stark girl after realizing he had been quiet for some time.

"He was telling some of the Stark guards that you keep flayed skins in your trunks and leeches in jars," Arya confessed. "They were all laughing."

Her story didn't surprise her. Domeric was use to it. No, what surprised him was the hard look in Arya's expression.

"But I didn't believe them," Arya admitted, "I knew better. I came in here because I wanted to prove Theon wrong."

That caught him off guard. He was actually touched by her desire to want to help him. He barely knew her, and already she was defending him.

"Why?"

"You never laughed at me when I tried to use the swords," she was looking at the ground, "you even encouraged me that one time."

It took Domeric a few seconds to remember what she was referring to. It had been after one of his lessons. Robb and Theon had gone off together, Domeric had stayed behind. While Rodrik and Jon left to the blacksmith to see how some repairs were going.

He had caught her with one of the blunted swords. She had been trying to sneak off with it so that she could get some practice with the weapon.

Against his better judgment he made an agreement with her. She stayed in the shadows of the stables while Domeric tended to Shadow. It was easy for him to clear the stables. Domeric was after all the son of Lord Bolton.

He watched her with the sword and realized that this wasn't her first time. She had some raw skill and Domeric could detect she had been given some lessons and advice. If he were to guess who was responsible he was certain it was Jon. He had noticed how close they were.

Domeric had feared he had made a mistake. Even in the relative silence and solitude of the stables a passing servant or guard could've spotted them and then Domeric would've been in trouble. He had inwardly scolded himself for making such a rash decision without thinking it through. Yet, when he watched her with the sword, seeing how happy she was he couldn't help but think he might have made the right choice.

"I am fortunate to have such a loyal friend."

She smiled at that. "So you're not mad?" She looked up shyly.

Not at you, but he kept that to himself. Domeric wasn't going to let anything slip about his current feelings towards the Heir of the Iron Islands.

"No," he smiled at her which seemed to alleviate her concern. He walked passed her. He no longer felt the need to block her exit. He moved to one of the seats by the hearth.

She made no move to leave. "Why did you help me?"

"Tell me, Arya," he gestured to the empty seat beside him, "Do you know the story of Nymeria, the warrior queen?"

\---------

He was in the stables when it happened. Domeric made his way out of them when he had heard the yelp of pain. He moved closer to see what was going on.

In the training yard he spotted Theon Greyjoy on his arse. His hands were covering his nose to try to stop the blood, but it was seeping through staining the front of his clothes. A broken bow lay at his side.

A confused Robb was right beside him trying to offer some sort of assistance, but seemed clueless onto what to actually do.

Ser Rodrik took charge of the situation. He shouted instructions to Robb to have him take Theon to see the Maester who would tend to the injury.

Robb lifted his friend off of the ground. A cursing, and bleeding Theon Greyjoy was led to the Maester's turret.

He would later find out that Theon had broken his nose. The smelly salve that was applied to his injured nose would stink up the halls of Winterfell for some time. And the story that detailed the accident would be a popular tale to tell that entertained the Stark guardsmen and castle servants for far longer.

Domeric turned away. He made his way back to the stables. No one saw him smiling.


	6. Eddard

He needed moments like this.

Ned took a deep breath of the cold air that gently passed over him. He needed to feel the cool winter wind against his face. His study could become too stuffy. The scalding waters that rushed through the walls and chambers of Winterfell could become too much at times. He was of the North.

The Starks were made for the cold. The crisp coldness settled his nerves and alleviated the stiffness he had felt creeping up on him due to his stifling study. An icy chill swept through the Winterfell training yard while a fresh powder of snow had already settled on the ground from last night.

Laughter broke him from his musings. Turning his attention to the training yard to see Robb, Arya, Bran, Jon, and Domeric were all enjoying the snow. His eyes lingered on the Bolton heir. It had been nearly a year since Ned had decided to accept Lord Bolton's offer and allow his son, Domeric to foster at Winterfell.

In that year, Ned had never felt any doubt in his decision. He was pleased at how the young man was maturing. He watched him become close friends with his eldest, Robb as well as with Jon. The latter had been a friendship that had surprised Ned.

Robb and Jon were not the only ones who had grown to like Domeric. Both Bran and Arya had taken to him. The former had come to watch many of Domeric's practices in the tiltyard where he trained on horse and continued to excel in his skill with the lance. Ned believed even now Domeric could shine in any of the numerous tourneys the South loved to lavishly throw.

Ned could still remember when Arya came to him excited and chatting nonstop about the Warrior Queen, Nymeria. He had been surprised that his daughter knew of her because he hadn't believed she was that far along in her lessons with Maester Luwin. He later discovered that it had been Domeric who told her those tales. As well as stories of other strong woman warriors throughout history such as Aegon's sisters/wives: Visenya and Rhaenys, or of Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Though he knew these stories only encouraged Arya's behavior he allowed them to continue. She did better in her lessons with Maester Luwin and carried a spark whenever she talked about them. That alone made it an easy decision for him. He could see the look of longing on her face whenever she could watch Robb, Jon, Theon, and Domeric train in the tiltyard. He has entertained the idea of letting Arya foster with the Mormonts on Bear Island so that she could learn and train but he knew Cat would be against it. He too was hesitant with the decision knowing his youngest daughter also needed some refinement. So for the time being he let the matter lay.

The interactions he watched most closely were that of his eldest daughter and Domeric. Ned suspected that Lord Bolton's offer of Domeric to be fostered at Winterfell was his subtle attempt at an unspoken proposal of a betrothal between Domeric and Sansa. It was a union that would unite the two most powerful northern houses in a way that the North had never seen before. Ned recognized it as a tempting offer. He would be lying if he said he wasn't seriously considering it. He used the past year to better watch and learn of the young man who would someday be Lord of the Dreadfort.

Ned loved his eldest daughter, but he was concerned for her. Sansa was strong there was no doubt, but she showed her strength in different ways. He worried of her fascination of tales of love and knights and how that view of the world could leave her vulnerable to be exploited and hurt. He wanted someone who would treat her well. Someone who would care for her, protect her. In the end, he wanted Sansa to be happy.

These views weren't popular amongst the nobility when they arranged their sons and daughters in marriages in attempts to solidify more power and secure wealth. The political arrangements of marriages could not be avoided for a family as strong and as influential as theirs, but Ned and Cat had decided early on that they still wanted their children to be happy with their spouses. So when the time came for the betrothals to be made it would come with stipulations that made sure that they would know and hopefully care for their potential spouses before they made their vows.

It was a luxury Ned and Cat did not have, but thankfully they found love in their marriage. It was a rare blessing.

Maester Luwin, Septa Mordane, various servants, and guards kept him apprised of not just Domeric, but his interactions with Sansa. Luwin praised him for his knowledge and how he excelled in his studies especially history. The Septa would report of watching them together and how they often settled peacefully in the library or the gardens with Domeric playing his harp while Sansa would hum softly along or sometimes sing when she worked on her needlework.

The guards and servants he had spoken to informed him of Domeric being polite and well mannered. He treated them with respect and courtesy. He had seen similar things from the young man and was pleased to note that it didn't seem to be an act that he put up only in front of Ned and his family. The Bolton heir seemed genuine in his kindness.

Ned also did not ignore the small smiles that came to Sansa's face whenever her eyes met Domeric. Or the shy ones that he returned to her. He could tell that they already seemed to care for one another. That brought a great amount of comfort to him. It also helped to sway him in his musings when he pondered the decision he would have to make.

"ARYA!"

Sansa's sudden shriek brought his attention back to the training yard. Sansa was with Jeyne and Beth walking the yard. They were far enough away as to not be directly involved in the game that the others were playing but close enough to be able to hear and talk to them. Sansa was looking down at her lovely dress trying to brush off the dirty snow that Arya had hurled at her.

The game between the others came to a sudden stop. Tenseness hovered over the tilt yard like a dark cloud.

Arya was hiding behind Robb for protection. Robb looked to be trying not to laugh. Bran was frozen in his position, eyes wide in shock, but a smile was tugging at his lips while still holding onto a snowball. Jon was shaking his head. Domeric was the closest to Sansa and her friends. He looked towards the hiding Arya and then to the furious Sansa.

"My lady," Domeric approached Sansa. When he was close enough to her he offered an over the top bow that had Beth and Jeyne giggling, Robb was guffawing, and even Sansa's anger faded.

Ned was certain he saw a small smile grace his eldest daughter's face.

"Do you seek satisfaction?"

Sansa lifted her head a bit higher. Looking over towards her hiding sister, "I do." She declared imperiously.

"Would you allow me to be your champion?" Domeric ended his question with a dramatic hand flourish.

"I will," Sansa permitted in feigned haughtiness.

Domeric unable to keep the grin from his face turned to Robb. "The lady demands satisfaction."

"So be it," Robb puffed his chest proudly.

The antics of Robb and Domeric had brought Bran out of his frozen stance. He had dropped the snowball he had been holding. He quickly rushed over to bring them two blunted swords, smiling and laughing the whole time.

"A favor, my lady?" Domeric lowered his sword to Sansa.

"Of course," she replied in a sweet voice, "for my champion." She presented a ribbon from her hair, tying it to his sword hilt.

"Excellent," Domeric declared turning to Robb.

Robb frowning went over to Arya, "A favor, my lady?"

Arya who was no longer looking terrified at facing her sister's wrath was now laughing along. There was a happy gleam in her eyes that only widened when Robb presented the sword so that she could provide her own favor. Her smile turned mischievous.

"A favor?" She stuck out her tongue at that idea. "I want to fight!" She then took the sword from Robb and made her way towards Domeric.

"I see I will be facing a more challenging foe then I anticipated," Domeric raised his sword in anticipation.

"Hey!" Robb protested from the side.

Ned could've stopped them, especially when Arya took up the blunted sword instead of her brother. He probably should've, but he couldn't. Seeing them all happy and playing reminded him of his own times with Brandon, Benjen, and Lyanna and the games they use to play.

Let them have their fun, he thought. Let them understand the importance of family and friends so that when winter came they would know just how fiercely to protect those that they care for.

"Ned?"

He turned away from the theatrical fight between Domeric and Arya to see his wife approaching. He smiled in greeting especially with who she was carrying. Rickon, young and wild was squirming in her arms trying to break free so that he could go play with his brothers and sisters.

They joined him. He kissed Cat's cheek and tousled Rickon's hair.

"I yield!" Domeric cried after Arya's blunted sword had tapped his side. The Bolton heir collapsed onto the snow to laughter. He then dropped his head and gave out an exaggerated last gasp of breath.

Ned could see the slight frown come to his wife's lips at seeing Arya with a sword. He moved to grab Rickon from her, receiving her attention as she smiled her thanks. His youngest son stopped squirming, Rickon's eyes bright and attentive at the scene down below.

"Oh my brave champion!" Sansa cried out dramatically.

"Bested by the best swordswoman in the North!" declared Arya proudly.

A wet slap echoed across the training yard as Arya looked down to see she was hit with a snowball. She turned to see it was from Sansa, who was rolling up another one. Before Arya could react a second one hit her. That one had come from Domeric who was getting back to his feet.

"Hey!" She cried out, "I killed you!"

"I got better," he grinned.

The actions of him and Sansa had them all laughing while the snowball fight ensued.

"Bran!" Arya called to her brother for assistance. He rallied to her cause sending a snowball in Domeric's direction. That gave Arya enough time to scrounge up her own snowball and hurl one at her sister who ducked to avoid it.

"Father."

Ned turned to see Robb coming up to them. Smiling, his face was red from the cold and the mirthful mood from below.

"I can watch him," Robb told them gesturing to Rickon who squealed in delight.

Ned smiled. He acquiesced with a nod moving to relinquish his youngest son into the arms of his eldest .

Cat touched Robb's cheek, a doting smile on her lips. "Listen to your brother, Rickon."

"I will," Rickon promised excitedly.

"Lord Stark?" Maester Luwin appeared clutching a letter in his hand.

Ned turned away from the happy, playing children to the Maester of Winterfell. "Yes?"

"A letter from the Dreadfort," Luwin informed him. "Lord Bolton and Lady Dustin are on their way."

"Let's see to preparations," Ned nodded.

"Of course," Luwin didn't leave.

"Maester?" Cat noticed the hesitance in Luwin's expression.

"Forgive me," he bowed his head, "But I was wondering if Lord Stark had made a decision in regards to the possible betrothal between Domeric and Sansa."

"Ned?" Cat's eyes were on him.

He looked out to see Domeric and Sansa had taken cover from a fresh onslaught of snowballs sent by Bran and Arya while the unleashed Rickon was grabbing snow in his hands and tossing it at anyone he could see. Seeing his daughter smiling and laughing, and knowing what he knew of the young man and the potential this alliance could make the decision had become apparent for him.

"Winter is coming, Cat." His eyes were on his children. "In order to survive we must be together."


	7. Sansa

"Dom?"

"Hmmm?"

Sansa turned to her friend to see that he was distracted. A distant expression covered his face. They were in the Godswood. He was sitting by the heart tree. She was sitting closer to the dark pool then to him.

This had never been a place that she sought out. The long, melancholy face of the heart tree had frightened her as a child. She could never understand why her father would come here. Sansa could still remember asking him when she was younger, he had smiled at her and told her, 'this is where the old gods rest. They can hear our prayers and ease our burdens.'

She never looked at the heart tree the same way again after that. Her siblings Robb and Jon following Father's example would often come to the Godswood. Domeric too sought its solitude, and the comforting presence of the weirwood tree. He sometimes would bring his harp with him and say that the old gods loved music too.

Slowly, and more surely, Sansa started to come more and more with her brothers and Domeric. Often they would hardly speak, settling under the stare of the heart tree and a comfortable silence would fall on them while each invoked their prayers and thoughts to the old gods.

After the first time, Sansa was surprised by the relief she felt afterwards. That had been all she needed to continue to seek this place out whenever she felt troubled or scared. When she wrestled with her frustrations for her sister or her own doubts about the path her parents would set her on. It was all brought here and it was here where she found peace.

Putting aside her thoughts and memories, Sansa turned to see Domeric's pensive expression as he remained sitting in the shadow of the weirwood tree. She suspected he was seeking the old gods out to protect his father and aunt on their journey to Winterfell. She knew he was fretting about the arrival of his father.

It was just the two of them. She and he had come together after her lessons with Septa Mordane and his with Ser Rodrik. They met in the training yard and walked together to the Godswood. It was a routine they had fallen into for months now. It was one that Sansa enjoyed immeasurably.

"What's wrong?"

"I was just thinking," he hesitated before clarifying, "About my father's visit."

It had been announced several days before of Lord Bolton and Lady Dustin's visit to Winterfell; coinciding with Domeric's one year stay in Winterfell.

A year, she thought, still surprised by how fast it seemed to have gone. Or of the friendship that had forged between her and the Heir to the Dreadfort. He had become one of her closest friends. A fact she found strange at times, but never did she wish to change it or try to deny it.

"I don't want to disappoint him," he confessed suddenly. An expression of melancholy clouded his face, his eyes downcast, looking at his hands which he had resting in his lap.

Sansa didn't like seeing him in such a state. She preferred the warm, friendly Domeric who talked and laughed with her and her siblings.

"You won't." She knew how much he valued his father's opinion. She could tell just by listening to him when he spoke about him. He wanted to prove worthy of being the heir to the Dreadfort. He put such a burden on himself in the hopes of getting his father's approval.

Sansa didn't like it. Sometimes she couldn't help but wonder how someone so kind and warm like Dom could be related to the cold, aloof Lord Bolton. They seemed so different. She wasn't sure she wanted Domeric to get his father's approval. She wasn't quite certain what that would entail. The last thing she wanted for Domeric was for him to change for his father.

He doesn't have to change, she thought. He's great the way he is.

That realization brought a soft flutter in her chest. It was a strange, but not an unwelcomed feeling. It wasn't the first time either that she had felt it when she was around him.

"I'm sorry," his words pulled her abruptly from her thoughts.

Sansa turned to him. She could see he still looked troubled but when his eyes met hers it all seemed to evaporate from his expression. He gave her a smile that made her heart sing. He looked so handsome when he smiled. That fluttering feeling returned.

If only Dom could see himself the way she saw him, she thought. How no one could ever be disappointed or how someone like him never should be nervous or afraid. How truly happy and lucky she felt that he had come to Winterfell.

"We should be going," Domeric dusted himself once he pulled himself to his feet. He offered her his hand, his smile remained.

She hesitated, "Dom?"

"Yes?"

Looking into his warm brown eyes, she found her courage. "You could never be a disappointment."

He said nothing. He didn't even react. She was about to hastily say something to try to cover up her gaffe, but his voice stopped her.

"Thank you, Sansa." He said softly.

Relief flooded through her. She smiled at him, taking his offered hand as he helped her up. When she got to her feet she noticed how incredibly close they were. Faces hovering only inches apart. He just had to lean in and his lips would touch hers…

She felt her cheeks go warm at that thought. He was still holding her hand. His eyes were on her. She didn't dare speak in fear of ruining the precious moment that was spreading out between them. Her eyes held his.

There was a small voice in the back of her head exclaiming how improper this arrangement was. The two of them alone, unsupervised, so close to one another. That this wasn't how a proper lady should act or behavior she should encourage. But looking into his eyes, she didn't find herself caring.

He then raised her hand to his lips to place a gentle kiss upon it. His eyes never left hers. Afterwards, he slowly slipped his fingers from hers. Her hand felt suddenly cold. She dropped them to her side.

Sansa found herself wanting more.

He did what was expected of an honorable lord. He acted no different than the princes and knights in her songs and tales. So why did she feel disappointed? She hadn't wanted the moment to end with him placing a kiss to her hand but rather a kiss on her lips.

That sudden confession surprised her. She couldn't deny it either. It was all so confusing. 

"Dom!" Arya's voice carried through the Godswood.

Domeric took a few steps away from Sansa to put a respectable distance between them as to not give anybody any reason to gossip about them.

"There you are!" Arya came into view. She was smiling, oblivious to the mood she had walked in on or the moment she had interrupted. Her eyes were on Domeric. "You promised you'd let me ride Shadow."

"I did," Domeric dramatically scratched is chin as if trying to recall this promise. "Are you sure?"

Arya laughed at his behavior. "Yes!" She bobbed her head up and down before reaching out and grabbing Domeric's arm. "Come on!"

"Arya," Sansa chastised her sister's behavior. Yet, at the same time she found herself wishing she could be so courageous in her own touches with Domeric.

"It's alright," Domeric waved her off. "I'd be honored to escort this lady to the stables."

Arya smiled at that even though she tried her best to hide it. She stuck her tongue out at him, and he laughed.

Sansa felt a bit of jealousy creep up at the interactions between Arya and Domeric. Arya touched and grabbed him without thought or care. She joked and laughed with him without second thought. She wasn't like Sansa at all. She didn't seem to worry about any of it. Arya didn't seem to care who saw it or what they'd think. They were traits that Sansa often secretly admired about her sister.

"Did you find them?" Bran was out of breath when he arrived.

"What do you think?" was Arya's joking reply, gesturing to Domeric and Sansa.

Bran laughed. "So is he letting you ride Shadow?"

"I don't know," Arya turned to the Heir to the Dreadfort.

He looked between her and Bran unable to fight the amused smile that came to his face. "I suppose I must." He offered his arm to Arya.

Arya took his arm all wrong, Sansa thought while she watched her sister take Domeric's arm. He led Arya away but not before looking over his shoulder to Sansa and to offer her a small smile.

Sansa returned it, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks, she turned away.

Bran cleared his throat. He stepped forward and offered her a bow. "May I?" He held out his arm.

Sansa giggled at her brother's silly behavior. "I would be honored."

\------

"You wanted to see me, Father?" Sansa stepped into her father's study. She had been surprised by the summons. She knew there was some time before dinner where her family would formally welcome Lord Bolton and Lady Dustin to Winterfell.

She didn't mind it. Sansa was tired of her needlework. She was also a bit put out because Domeric was spending his afternoon with his aunt. That had surprised her. She had seen him with Lady Dustin several times throughout the castle, but couldn't recall seeing him with his father since greeting him when he arrived to Winterfell. She could only wonder where the Lord of the Dreadfort was and why he wasn't using the time gifted by her father during this visit to see him.

Bringing her attention back to the study to see her father wasn't sitting behind his desk like the countless times before when she would visit him here. He was standing by one of the windows. He was holding a cup. He looked at her with a kind smile. He wasn't alone. She spotted mother too. She was sitting in one of the chairs closest to the fire. She gave Sansa a warm look before gesturing to the seat beside her.

Sansa obeyed. Coming to take the offered seat next to her mother, she sat down and noticed Maester Luwin was also in the room. He was hovering quietly by the desk. He was holding several pieces of parchment but when their eyes met, he bowed his head respectfully, his expression friendly.

"How are you, child?"

"I'm fine, Father." Still unsure of why she had been brought here.

"Good," he said a bit stiffly.

She noticed a look exchanged between her parents. They seemed to be having a silent conversation in front of her.

"What is it?" Sansa didn't miss the fleeting, but pointed look her mother sent to father.

Father didn't answer right away. He took a sip from his cup. "Do you remember your lessons with Septa Mordane and Maester Luwin? About the roles we are expected to play."

"I do," she said slowly.

"Robb is our heir and will one day rule as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."

Sansa already knew this. She wondered why her parents were telling her this now. 

"You yourself have an important role too."

"I know, Father," she told him, "To marry into a noble family and strengthen our family ties and secure alliances."

"That's right," he agreed. He looked relieved that he hadn't had to say it.

"An offer has come forward for your hand."

"I'm betrothed?" Sansa hadn't been expecting this. Not yet. She felt her heart lurch, before she would've been excited about this. Learning what nobleman she would be marrying, and hoping beyond hope that it was someone outside the North. How she wanted to live in the southern courts and see how it fared to her favorite tales. She had always wanted to marry a prince. Now, she found her heart wasn't looking to the south for a husband. It was hoping for someone far closer.

"Yes," her mother was there. Grabbing her hand, and trying to soothe the worry that was bubbling up in her tummy. "But you won't be married for some time."

"That's right," Father confirmed.

"Lady Sansa," that was Maester Luwin, shuffling the papers in his hands which she could only think were of the recently agreed betrothal arrangement. "This union will strengthen your house and the North."

"The North?" she repeated, perking at the word. She turned to Father for confirmation.

"Aye." An amused look flickered over his face.

Could it be? She thought. Sansa felt hope swell within.

"You are betrothed to Domeric Bolton."

\-------

Betrothed…

That simple, single word had brought with it a spring of happiness that filled her.

Sansa couldn't stop smiling. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

It had only been last night when her father had told her the wonderful news. That night a celebratory feast had been held to honor the occasion while word was sent across the North of the agreement. It wasn't a grand affair, and Sansa found that she didn't mind. It was her and her family, Domeric's family, and the loyal retainers of both of their families. She found the setting intimate as these were the people who knew them best.

Before she had dreamed of a lavish feast with lords and ladies flocking from all the seven kingdoms to celebrate her union to some prince and congratulate them on their pending vows. That was how it was told in the stories, but this wasn't the first time she slowly found herself drifting away from the tales she was told growing up. She had already found her true prince and he wasn't from the south.

They had danced for much of the night. Her father had a singer from White Harbor perform which made Sansa think that perhaps he had known about this pending union longer then he had told her. Being in Dom's arms she had felt safe like nothing or no one could hurt her. She hadn't known what she had been missing until she felt his strong arms embrace her. Being able to share touches in such an intimate space without fear of reprimand had been a delight.

He danced with grace, sharing a dance with her mother, his aunt, and even Arya wanted one. In that time she shared a dance with her father, and her brothers. Then she shared a dance with Lord Bolton. When Dom made her warm and happy, his father made her cold and nervous. She could still remember his quiet voice offering her his congratulations of the betrothal and how she would be welcomed at the Dreadfort. Looking into those pale eyes, she was thankful that Domeric hadn't inherited them.

It had felt like a dream. She was afraid that when she went to bed last night she would wake up to find out it had been and that none of it was true.

That fear had been alleviated. Blinking in the sunlight, she stirred under her covers still smiling about last night.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, "Lady Sansa?"

"Yes?" She sat up on her bed. She recognized the voice to have belonged to one of her father's guards.

"Your presence is expected in the gardens."

"I will be out shortly."

"Very good, m'lady."

Confused at who or why she would be needed in the gardens at this or any hour. She had been hoping to break fast with her family and Dom. She dressed quickly before departing for the glass gardens.

Sansa arrived to see who it had been who had invited her. Sansa looked wide eyed at the small picnic laid out waiting for her. The small array of food had already been spread out as were two filled goblets.

"I hope you don't mind," Domeric stepped forward. "I asked your father for permission and he agreed." He continued, "I thought it would be nice if we broke fast together."

"It's wonderful!" She declared happily.

Relief came to his expression as his smile became more certain. "I'm glad." He offered her his arm to escort her to the little picnic area he had set up.

She took it gladly. Still smiling, "You didn't have to go through all this."

"Yes, I did." He told her as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You are to be my wife one day, which means by the laws of the gods and man I have the right to spoil you."

She giggled at that. "I love it." She sat down careful with her dress as she did.

"Good." He sounded pleased. "Don't worry," he was still smiling as he moved to take his seat beside her. "Septa Mordane is skulking about," his smile turned mischievous when he added, "To make sure you don't take my virtue."

She laughed, before playfully slapping his arm but that only made him laugh harder. When the laughter subsided, a comfortable silence fell on them as Sansa went about sampling the bits of food that Domeric had brought and putting others on her plate.

The warmth of the hot springs pumped into the gardens with the morning sunlight shimmering through the glass ceilings. Sansa couldn't have imagined a better morning to break her fast with. Here, in the gardens bathed in sunlight and surrounded by the beautiful flowers of the north, and beside the man who would one day be her husband. A man she already found herself caring for.

Thinking back about the prayers and thoughts she had offered to the old gods beneath the weirwood tree, she knew now they had been listening. They had answered her prayers. They had brought Domeric to her.

"Are you happy?"

Sansa looked up to see doubt in his eyes.

"About the betrothal?" He clarified.

"I am," she affirmed. She didn't like seeing the doubt cloud his expression. She reached out and took his hand.

He was surprised by the gesture but clearly appreciated it if the smile he gave her was anything to go by. "Good," he sounded relieved. He leaned towards her and before Sansa could think or react she felt his lips on hers. His kiss was tender. Their lips touched gently.

To Sansa it was perfect and was everything she dreamed her first kiss would be like...

Except for when Septa Mordane loudly cleared her throat. Interrupting the blissful kiss and all but ruining the moment, Sansa had been sharing with her betrothed. Her heart was fluttering in her chest at the wonderful, first kiss they had just shared. It was better than the songs, she had decided.

Domeric pulled away from her after the Septa's scolding. A smile was on his lips and a slightly glazed look in his eyes. Sansa was all but certain it was a look she currently mirrored. He looked over his shoulder to the frowning Septa. "Fear not, my virtue is still intact."

Despite the Septa's glowering look, Sansa couldn't help but laugh.


	8. Robb

Dawn had yet to arrive, and already Winterfell was bustling.

There was noise and movement everywhere. Horses were being led out of the stables to be harnessed and saddled. Banners of Stark and Bolton flapped in the breeze as men from both houses were shouting orders to make sure all preparations were ready so that they could begin as soon as the Lords arrived.

Robb was already outside. He stifled a yawn. Hullen had thankfully already attended to his horse so all that was left for Robb was to wait for his friends to arrive.

This hunt had been arranged to commemorate the recent announcement of the betrothal between Sansa Stark and Domeric Bolton. The news had been greeted with celebration throughout the castle, a small, but telling testament of the feelings that Sansa and Domeric had culminated with the people who lived and worked here.

At first, Robb had been surprised at the announcement. It was more the timing then the actual news. He was aware of him and his siblings' duties especially him and Sansa as they were the oldest son and daughter, and therefore more responsibility relied on them in terms of securing an advantageous spouse for their family. Seeing as he was the oldest and heir to Winterfell, he had expected his own betrothal to be made before Sansa's. However, he was a bit relieved that there was currently no betrothal looming over him.

Seeing how well Sansa and Domeric got along before and after the news had made Robb a bit envious. They had gotten to know one another without any betrothal hanging over them to pressure the pair into forming some sort of friendship. It had happened naturally, and when it did only then did his parents seem interested in the idea of making a betrothal with the Lord of the Dreadfort, which Robb suspected had been Lord Bolton's objective all along.

Whether or not it had been Lord Bolton's goal it didn't seem to corrupt or strain the friendship that Robb witnessed between his sister and friend. He could only hope for a similar outcome when it came his time to be betrothed. He wasn't keen on the idea of marrying a stranger. Even though he knew his parents hadn't met until the day they were married. They had been able to find love in their marriage. That provided Robb some ease, but still watching Sansa and Domeric together, he couldn't deny that he wanted something similar.

Thinking more about the betrothal, if Robb was honest he'd admit he had been a little bit disappointed in the match between Sansa and Domeric. That disappointment stemmed from his earlier hopes of a betrothal being struck between Theon and Sansa. An idea he had grown attached to as his friendship with Theon grew over the years.

However, even if that had been his hope at some point, Robb still had his reservations about it. Theon's infamy with brothels was one. And Robb wasn't certain his friend could be honest to one woman and he definitely couldn't stomach the idea of his sister being married to an unfaithful husband.

That little drop of disappointment he felt had evaporated at seeing just how happy Sansa was with Domeric. Robb knew his parents had made the right decision at the feast when it had been announced. His sister was all but glowing at the news, and Robb noticed Domeric's own unguarded enthusiasm as well as the affection and attention he had given Sansa throughout the evening.

A caw cried over head, bringing Robb's attention back to his surroundings. He looked up to see a few ravens flying to and from the Maester's turret. A sliver of coolness coiled itself in his stomach at seeing them. He knew since his sister's betrothal had been announced throughout the North that many of the northern families had ratcheted up their own offers and shows of interest in forging a betrothal of their daughters with Robb.

His thoughts on the offers coming from the northern families were forgotten when he spotted someone moving towards the stables. 

"What are you doing here? You should be in bed."

Arya turned around. Surprise covered her face, but there was determination in her eyes. "I want to come."

"You know you can't," Robb told her gently.

"It's not fair," she complained, "I'm a good rider!"

Robb sighed. "I know." He crouched down. "And you're a great rider."

She beamed at the compliment, but her lips soon trembled at not being able to come with them.

"Arya, you have to stay here. Father has already made his decision."

She kicked some dirt with her boot, knowing she had no recourse but to return to the castle.

"I'll tell you what," Robb put his hands on her shoulders. "You stay here this time and I promise next time I go riding with Domeric and Jon into the Wolfswood that you can come with us."

"You mean it?" Arya lit up.

"I do," Robb swore.

Arya nearly tackled him to the ground with her hug. Robb enveloped his younger sister, picking her up and earning a squeal of delight when he spun her before putting her back down. 

"Now you best head back before Father or Mother catch you out here."

"I'll go back," Arya promised.

He smiled at her and gave her a quick hug before watching her sneak back towards the castle.

"Such a pity," drawled a familiar voice, "I much prefer her company over Greyjoy's."

Robb could only shake his head when he turned around to greet his friend. Domeric was standing behind him, but he wasn't alone, Jon was there too. The presence of his brother for the hunt had been a pleasant surprise for Robb. Knowing how the nobility viewed bastards, he had thought Jon wouldn't be allowed to go with them.

It wasn't until last night that Robb discovered Jon would be joining them. It was his brother himself who revealed the news looking conflicted at the idea, and muttering this was Domeric's doing. An observation made in jest, and seeing Jon here, Robb knew his brother was pleased at the opportunity to go with them. 

"We came to find you," Domeric explained. "The hunting party is ready."

Robb nearly frowned. Since it had been him waiting for them for the longest time only to find out now he was the one holding up the hunt. "Very well," he led them back to where their horses were waiting for them.

"Let's be off."

\----------

"Theon!" Robb called out to his friend. "Slow down!"

The heir to the Iron Islands didn't heed Robb's words. Instead, Theon was urging his horse away from him.

"The damn boar went this way!" Theon shouted over his shoulder.

Robb tried to keep up but Theon was still way out ahead of him. He could hear the thundering hooves and didn't need to turn to know they belonged to Domeric and Jon who had gone after him when he chased after Theon.

Theon looked around the clearing where they were before perking up at something he must have seen because without saying a word, he went off again.

"Theon!"

"Forget him," said a disgruntled Domeric. "Let him go."

"We should head back," Jon said solemnly. "I don't see any of Father's men."

"How could you?" Domeric rebutted, "Theon has led us on a merry chase to the middle of nowhere."

"We should go after him," Robb argued.

Domeric got off of his horse and sent Robb a look that clearly conveyed he wasn't in the mood to chase after Theon. "Let the horses rest for a second," He led his over to a nearby creek, "And then we can decide if we should go after Greyjoy."

"They may find us if we stay put," Jon reasoned, taking Domeric's advice and leading his horse to the creek so it can get some water.

Robb still staring off where Theon went off before turning back to them to see neither looked that willing to continue the chase at the moment. "Fine," Robb joined them.

"Was that so difficult?" Domeric quipped.

Robb rolled his eyes, but before he could answer he heard a rustle coming from the bushes in front of them.

"Could Greyjoy have been right?" Domeric sounded in pain at the thought that Theon was right about something.

"What have we here?" asked a low voice as a short, stout man pushed his way through the thicket of bushes. He wasn't alone. Several others emerged from various shadows from the surrounding Wolfswood, making their way towards them. Robb counted six.

"Wildlings," Jon murmured.

The short, stout wildling let out a bark of laughter. "Ain't the gods good?" He turned to the wildling closest to him; who was a towering man dressed in various hides and leathers. His face severely mutilated with markings, his eyes dark and hard. He held an ugly jagged looking battle axe against his shoulder.

"It seems they are," The giant of the man replied in a deep rumbling voice.

"And they got horses," chirped the wildling closest to Domeric. It was a woman, lanky, and sported a dark cloak that Robb was sure had come off a member of the Night's Watch. She held an axe in her hand and there was a cold glint in her eyes.

"We'll be taking those horses, southerners," the short wildling told them.

"We're not southerners," Robb bristled.

The wildlings laughed loud and hard at his declaration.

"Anyone south of the Wall is a southerner, kneeler." The short wildling chided him.

"You're not taking the horses," Domeric had already pulled out his sword and took a protective step to put himself between him and his horse, Shadow.

The woman took a step towards Domeric. "Best step away, boy." She pointed her axe at him. "I've killed men for lesser things."

Jon unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the woman, "It'd be wise if you left us before our party returns."

"We'll take our chances," the short wildling replied, withdrawing a pair of serrated blades.

A tenseness filled the woods, as neither group was willing to back down. Then suddenly a gasp broke through, one of the wildlings stumbled forward to show an arrow protruding from his back. He coughed up blood before giving a weak grunt and fell over.

"Theon!" said a relieved Robb.

Another wildling fell at Theon's precision with a bow, while the Iron Islands heir remained hidden and safe in the shadows of the looming trees of the Wolfswood.

The sight of the two fallen wildlings sent the others into a frenzy. It wasn't fear that drove them but vengeance. Letting out battle cries they charged them. A third one fell from Theon's bow before the wildlings reached them. Domeric had the woman while Jon took on the towering wildling, the last wildling was the short, stout one who Robb was confident was the leader of this wildling raiding party.

Robb with sword already out met the strong blow from his wildling attacker. Who let out a snarl before slashing at Robb with his second sword. Robb sidestepped the attack and struck high with his weapon, while trying to ignore his heart pounding in his ears.

The wildling leader blocked the blow and cut inwards; Robb spun out of the reach of the blade and had his sword up predicting a second strike. He was right. His sword blocked the blow that would've slashed him across the chest had he not anticipated the move.

Robb pushed off with his sword and unleashed a series of blows onto the wildling leader. He met each one of Robb's strikes with his swords to parry the attacks. He slashed high with one of his swords while cutting low with the other in an effort to trap Robb. He ducked to miss the high strike and had his sword to block the low one.

He heard a loud roar followed by a thud and knew it must've come from the tall wildling warrior. Robb didn't dare look to see what had happened, for a split second he feared the thud had been from Jon and he had been injured or worst. But those fears were alleviated when he heard Jon's voice. But the clang of swords drowned out what his brother had said.

The wildling twirling his swords resembled a metal blur. He poked and stabbed at Robb in hopes of opening him up his stance, but remembering his training from Ser Rodrik, Robb did not break his discipline. When he could meet the blades with his sword he did and pushed them away from his body and those he could not deflect with steel, he dodged with his feet.

With the last stab, Robb saw his opening and moved his sword in a cutting arc, but when he noticed the gleam in the wildling's eye he knew he fell for a feint. The wildling spun easily out of reach from Robb's blade appearing at Robb's side, blades poised in a swift move to try to decapitate Robb, he ducked the move before driving his sword right through the wildling's neck in an upwards motion that had his blade coming out of the top of the wildling's skull.

He was dead instantly.

Robb bit back the bile that burned its way up his throat. He pulled the sword out and turned when the wildling's body crumpled to the ground. He dropped his sword not wanting to see the blood and brain bits that were speckled on it.

He looked up to see his brother had bested and killed the towering wildling. His face was grim and he was panting from the exertion the fight had taken out of him. His grey eyes were transfixed on the body of the wildling he had killed.

Before Robb could say anything to his brother, a cry broke through and he turned to see Domeric had bested the woman, who now lay on her back, weapon out of reach and her hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"Mercy!"

Domeric had a nasty looking bruise covering the left side of his face where it seemed he had gotten hit by the flat side of her axe. His expression hooded in anger. He never lowered his weapon at her surrender, instead he plunged his sword into the woman's chest before Robb could so much as blink.

She let out an anguished cry that chilled Robb's insides. She coughed up blood, her eyes widened in fright. Her body shuddered for a few seconds before finally going still.

"Domeric?!" Robb couldn't believe what his friend had just done. "She surrendered!"

Domeric pulled his sword out of her. The movement made a soft, squishy sound. He turned to Robb, his eyes cold and dark. For the first time, Robb saw the resemblance to his father, Lord Roose Bolton. And that frightened him.

"I didn't accept it." He said flatly.

Stunned by the cold answer his friend gave, but before Robb could press him on what he just did, Theon revealed himself. The heir of the Iron Islands sauntered out from where he had remained hidden in the Wolfswood. His bow held loosely in his hand. A smirk was on his lips as he took in the scene of the skirmish that left six wildlings dead.

"You're welcome," he said to them.

Jon rolled his eyes and Domeric scoffed. It was clear neither of them were going to offer their gratitude to him. 

"We need to get going," Jon insisted. "We need to tell Father about the wildlings."

Robb couldn't argue with his brother's words. As Warden of the North, it was up to their father to protect the North. This wildling attack would concern him and no doubt, he would send word to the Night's Watch to try to figure out how these wildlings slipped past the Wall.

"You're right," Robb agreed, as the three of them made their way to their horses that had been tied up before the fight with the wildlings. Settling on his horse, Robb couldn't help but look at the dead wildlings that littered the ground before them. He had killed someone today. Seeing his sword go through the wildling's skull had nearly made him vomit afterwards. He could still taste the bile residue that had climbed up his throat.

He had never killed before.

Robb looked over to see his brother shared his own conflicting expression. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to return to his father. Father always knew what to say. His words always had a way of helping Robb with his struggles or his fears.

He then moved his attention over to Domeric. He was unable to forget what his friend had done to the woman who had surrendered. Looking to see the heir to the Dreadfort sat calmly upon his horse. There seemed no doubt or guilt weighing on him for what he did. That troubled Robb.

The four friends left the dead wildlings behind to seek out the hunting party. Robb knew that what happened here had changed him and the others. They were different now. One could not kill a man and not remain unchanged.

Was this the action that spurred them from boys to men? Robb could only wonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone for the support that you've given this story.
> 
> I'm always humbled to receive a bookmark or a kudos for this story. To know that this story is catching interest is a rewarding feeling. And that's thanks to you. 
> 
> It's also wonderful to get comments, to read from the audience their thoughts/opinions on the story and to see them engaged with this story or the plot or its characters. It serves as great motivation to receive such feedback and to spur me to continue to update this story on this site.
> 
> Thank you,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	9. Domeric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a bit longer to update b/c I added a scene that wasn't in the already published story. Sorry for the delay.

Domeric winced.

"Are you alright?" Sansa's face creased in worry.

"I'm fine," he answered her for the umpteenth time, but he didn't mind her concern, he appreciated it.

A look of relief flickered across her face. "Good."

They had returned to Winterfell upon reuniting with Lord Stark and his father's hunting party. When they arrived, Domeric was taken straight to the Maester turret where Luwin treated his wound.

That was where a worried Sansa had found him. She was quick to make sure his injury wasn't severe and was relieved to see it was not. She then had asked Luwin to instruct her on what to do wanting to tend to Domeric herself. Luwin obliged her.

Sansa's face hovered inches away from him. Her hand pressed against the side of Domeric's face where she had applied the salve under Maester Luwin's instructions. She was holding a cold compress to help lower the swelling on the side of his face from where that wildling had hit him.

Domeric could breathe in her sweet scent. Her lips parted slightly, begging to be kissed. There was nothing he wanted to do more then to cut the distance between them and press his lips to hers. He stayed his desire aware of the lingering Maester Luwin who watched Sansa tending to him with a proud smile.

"Well done, Lady Sansa," The maester praised.

Sansa smiled at his compliment. "Thank you, Maester Luwin."

"Yes, indeed," Domeric agreed, "You have a wonderful touch, my lady."

A pretty bush came to her cheeks, but she regained herself quickly. "Do not think that I'll be pleased if I discover you injured again."

"I know, my lady," Domeric had the decency to look sheepish at her threat. He then placed his hand on top of her hand that had been resting on her lap while the other one remained holding the compress to his face.

"How are you feeling, Domeric?"

He knew the Maester was not referring to the cut on his face, but of the events that transpired during the hunt. Sansa's hand had frozen in place at the mention of the hunt. Domeric noticed the curiosity shimmering beneath her bright eyes, but her courtesies kept her quiet.

Domeric had been expecting this. To kill a person was no easy thing, a lesson he saw Robb and Jon struggling with. It was a lesson Domeric had already learned.

Before he set out to the Vale, he accompanied his Lord Father who had been called to dispense justice. When they arrived, they found a man who was guilty of murder. It was the headman's axe. It fell on Domeric to deliver his father's verdict-death.

It wasn't until later did Domeric discover that the man was never offered a chance at taking the Black. His father did not allow it because of Dom. He wanted him to kill that man before he left for the Vale. He wanted him to understand what it meant to take a life. The man was sacrificed so that his father could impart Domeric with that lesson. That truth still festered on Domeric's mind when he allowed himself to dwell on it.

That was not the only time. He encountered death during his stay in the Vale. Mountain clansman had ambushed Lord Redfort's party. It had been bloody, but quick, bodies on both sides. Domeric hadn't killed any of the clansman, he had been protected by Lord Redfort's men. It was after the attack when Ser Creighton, Lord Redfort's second son had bested one of them, a warrior woman and had decided to be merciful and make her his prisoner.

When Creighton had gone to bind her hands, the woman revealed a knife tucked away within her clothes and slashed at him. It had been Domeric and Ser Jasper, Lord Redfort's eldest and heir that intervened. Domeric ran her through with his sword without hesitation while Jasper went to protect his brother. Creighton's injury thankfully wasn't severe, but it made an impact on Domeric and the others.

"It weighs on me, Maester," Domeric said softly, realizing he had been quiet for some time. He wasn't comfortable revealing that he had killed before. "But I did what needed to be done." His eyes found Sansa's. "I had to return."

She squeezed his hand. "Always return to me."

Her words were a whisper, but Domeric heard them and he gave her a solemn nod.

"Lord Bolton," Luwin's voice broke the peaceful privacy Domeric had found him and Sansa sharing.

His father was standing at the door. His pale eyes were taking in the scene before him.

"Lord Bolton," Sansa's hand slipped from his. She stood from her seat to give the Lord of the Dreadfort a proper curtsey.

He regarded her silently, "Lady Sansa," he inclined his head towards her. "Your civility does you great credit."

"Thank you, Lord Bolton."

He then turned to Maester Luwin. "How is my son, Maester?"

"The swelling is nearly gone, my lord," Luwin informed him. "And the bruise will fade in time."

"Good," His father's quiet voice dominated the room. "I would like a moment alone with him."

"Of course, my lord," Luwin bowed his head.

Sansa too didn't need to be told again. She offered Domeric a warm smile before following the Maester out of the room.

"What happened with the wildlings?" Lord Bolton had waited until the door had closed before speaking. "I know details were vague and the boy, Robb couldn't meet my eyes when he told the story to myself and Lord Stark."

He should've known his father would be suspicious of Robb's story. His father wasn't a man to be easily duped. He paid attention to facts. He was always well rehearsed in people's habits to help him better understand when they were being truthful or misleading.

"He omitted certain bits," The Lord of the Dreadfort observed.

In his foolish attempt at protecting my honor, Domeric thought to himself. His friend's retelling was done due to his foolishness into thinking that he had done some terrible thing. As if Domeric needed to be ashamed for how he acted.

Domeric Bolton felt none of those things when he recalled putting his sword through that wildling woman. He did it because it was the sensible thing to do. Honor and chivalry make a poor shield when your enemy doesn't heed to your sort of character.

"He told it mostly true," Domeric began, "The only part he altered was my part in the fight."

"And what was your part?"

"I fought the wildling woman," Domeric admitted, "but I didn't kill her in the heat of combat." He met his father's pale eyes, "I killed her after she surrendered." He used the word loosely.

"And why did you kill her?"

"I didn't trust her," was Domeric's honest answer. "Man or woman, she was a wildling. They aren't to be trusted." It was one of the first lessons he learned as a boy growing up in the Dreadfort. "She was my enemy. She had to be dealt with in a manner befitting that."

"Wise," his father's words were soft, but the praise was deafening.

"The others didn't think so," Domeric wasn't sure he'd ever forget the stunned looks that Robb and Jon sent him. The accusatory eyes they gave him as if he had just murdered every servant at Winterfell.

How could they not see the truth when it was right in front of them? It was so simple, so evident. She was the enemy. He dealt with her. That was it. There was nothing more needed to be said or done. They didn't see it that way. He wasn't sure if they ever would.

"You haven't forgotten our family's words."

"Our blades are sharp," Domeric recited with pride.

"It's good that your time with the Starks hasn't dulled your judgment." Lord Bolton sounded pleased when he spoke. "Lord Stark's honor is famous throughout the kingdoms, but it will not protect him in most of them."

"What of the wildings, Father?" Domeric wanted to change the subject. He didn't want to dwell on the subject of Lord Stark. A man who he admired, but he knew better then to defend him in front of his father. Domeric knew how he would react to was also curious about the wildling situation. It was not common for them to come so far down from the Wall without being spotted. It was disconcerting.

"Lord Stark has sent a raven to Castle Black." He informed him. "It appears that the Night's Watch is incapable of handling the wildlings."

"Father?" Domeric could tell there was more that his father wasn't saying.

"This is not their first encroachment," his father revealed. "I've had to put some down myself and I've heard of similar stories from the Last Hearth and Karhold."

"They've grown bolder," Domeric muttered in disbelief. These reports of wildlings were surprising. If the Night's Watch could not uphold their duty, Domeric knew it fell on Lord Stark and his bannermen to repel the wildlings from advancing onto their lands.

"Do not fret about the wildlings," Father told him, "They are no concern of yours."

They are of every concern to me, Domeric wanted to rebut. I will one day be Lord of the Dreadfort. It will be my duty to defend my people from wildling attacks.

"You have done well, my son." His father's words cut through Domeric's thoughts on the wildlings.

"You've done everything I've asked."

"Thank you, Father," Domeric was certain he saw approval in his father's pale eyes.

"You have united our house with the Starks." He placed a hesitant hand on Dom's shoulder. "Bringing our family an amount of power and influence it has not seen since we ruled the North as Red Kings."

\------------

"Ahh Dom," Lady Barbrey Dustin greeted him warmly.

It was an odd, but a welcoming sight for Domeric the next morning when he stepped into the Guest House of Winterfell to see his Aunt sitting at the long table, eating alone. She was dressed all in black. A perpetual state of mourning for the husband she lost during Robert's Rebellion, Willam Dustin, Lord of Barrowton. Her hair was equal parts brown and grey and had already been put up in a widow's knot.

"Aunt Barbrey," he smiled in greeting.

"Come to break your fast with me?"

"If you'll have me, Auntie," he replied.

She smiled at that. "You are always welcome at my table."

Domeric nodded his thanks before taking the bench across from her. They sat alone at the long table, a Stark Banner hung proudly on the stone wall behind his aunt's seat.

A few smaller tables were scattered around for the servants and soldiers of the visiting lord, they were mostly empty. He noticed a few men milling about at one table, spotting his aunt's personal sigil stitched into their jerkins.

"Your father has already eaten and has gone back to his chambers."

Domeric suspected as much. He knew his father's habits as a boy in the Dreadfort and wasn't surprised to see they hadn't changed much over the years.

"Will your betrothed be joining us?"

"She is eating with her family," Domeric picked up one of the loaves of hot bread, breaking it in two. "She'll likely visit afterwards."

"She's a pretty little thing."

His Aunt's tone caused him to look up from his plate. She met his inquisitive stare with a sharp smile. Domeric knew her well enough to sense a criticism in her tone. To anyone else's ear her previous words were an expected compliment, but to him they rang hollow.

"She is."

"She looks more trout than wolf," his aunt observed in an innocent tone, but her eyes conveyed her judgment. "I noticed the Sept in Winterfell," the word was spoken with simmering disgust, "That southern faith in the heart of the north."

His aunt was always a bold woman with a sharp tongue, and that would not change whether she was in Barrow Hall or here at Winterfell.

"It isn't right," her eyes looked hawkish when they met his. "Should I be expecting one at the Dreadfort for your pretty wife?"

"No," Domeric answered, "Sansa follows the old gods."

"Truly?" The genuine surprise in her tone sounded genuine. "Good, here I was afraid that your father agreed to let you marry some southern girl who'd frighten at the sight of the flayed man."

Her words and tone stung.

Domeric loved his aunt, cherishing his time with her in Barrowton and looking to her for wisdom and a maternal figure after his mother died. It was his aunt who had helped raise him as a boy, taking him from the Dreadfort to serve as her page for years in Barrowton. He respected her judgment and sought her council so to hear her say such things about his future wife and a woman who he cherished, hurt.

"You do not like her." He was careful to mimic a casual tone and to keep his face from revealing how much his aunt's words had affected him.

"It's hard to judge her, Dom," She seemed to sense his discomfort. "She's sweet and pretty," the complimentary words were said blithely and dismissively. "She does seem to have good hips for bearing children and will be plenty fertile if her mother is any indication," she conceded, though her tone changed when mentioning Lady Stark.

She reached over and placed her hand over Domeric's free one, "I only want the best for you."

"I'm happy with her," He knew he chose his words poorly as soon as he spoke them.

"Happiness is for fools," his aunt's features sharpened, "It won't keep you warm or fed when winter is upon us."

"Sansa is strong," Domeric insisted. He had witnessed such acts countless times during his first year at Winterfell.

"I thought I taught you better then to be fooled by a pretty face," she sounded disappointed.

"You did," Domeric replied, "So mayhaps you should trust my judgment on her."

His words came out harsher then he intended and saw the briefest flicker in his aunt's eyes of surprise at his tone. He never spoke to her in such a way, but he wouldn't have her speak about Sansa in such a way either.

"I see a girl who parrots pretty words and bland compliments, but what's beneath that flawless skin?" She asked in an effort to defend her previous remarks on Sansa.

"Steel," Domeric answered without hesitation.

"We shall see, Dom."

\---------

Domeric stood alone in front of the heart tree in the Godswood.

His Father and Aunt had left Winterfell. His Father was pleased and proud at what Domeric had accomplished in his first year here. His conversation with his Aunt was still fresh in his mind. He loved and respected her, but she was wrong about Sansa.

Domeric knelt before the tree, feeling the power of the old gods as his knees sunk into the earth. He revered their presence and sorely missed them during his time in the Vale. He found solace in their stare and found it the only true place to sort his thoughts and give his prayers.

A year ago he had done something similar to the Heart tree that resided in the Dreadfort in his family's Godswood. Tired and conflicted he sought strength and guidance from them at the task his father had put before him. Doubt had filled him when his father had put forth his plan of him fostering in Winterfell.

The Boltons had never come to Winterfell to foster. They came at the front of armies. Twice have Red Kings sacked and burned Winterfell to the ground during their wars with the Starks. They came as hostages too, in failed attempts at rebellion against the Starks, the last one being just when the Andals had begun landing on the shores of Westeros.

So much has changed.

Boltons and Starks were no longer enemies. With this betrothal there could be no doubt that the Boltons stood firmly behind the Starks.

Domeric felt a bit overwhelmed in the part he played in all of this. He was the catalyst to secure his family's future with the Starks. His fostering at Winterfell had brought with it many blessings for him.

He had formed a bond of brotherhood with Robb. The Heir to Winterfell, and future Warden of the North, who looked like his mother, but had all of Lord Stark's honor and character. Domeric was grateful for the friendship they forged at coming of age together. They were both excited and nervous at the prospect of following their powerful fathers in succeeding them as Lords when those days would finally come.

With Jon, he found an unlikely friendship. He was thankful that he never degraded himself in judging Jon by his status instead of his character. If he had he would've missed an opportunity at a friendship that Domeric cherished. He felt protective over him and wondered was this the feeling that older brothers had over their younger brothers. Knowing the dreary sort of fate that lay ahead for most bastards, Dom was determined to make sure that did not befall his friend.

For the first time, he found himself with a sister in Arya. He enjoyed indulging the youngest Stark daughter in stories of famous women or letting her ride Shadow. She had courage, confidence, and a spirit that Domeric admired greatly.

Then there was Bran. The young man yearned to be a knight. Domeric wasn't sure he had a practice which the young Stark hadn't attended. He was always there afterwards with questions on different techniques and methods. He had been a bit overwhelmed by the boy's eagerness, but did his best to answer his questions.

He couldn't forget Rickon, who his family affectionately called the wild wolf. To Domeric he resembled more a blur than any wolf. Their difference in ages made Rickon the one Domeric knew the least. He was filled with such energy. He was always so eager to play with Bran and Arya. He may be wild, Domeric thought, but his adoration to his siblings could not be questioned.

Looking back at the bonds that he had forged with the Stark family culminating of his betrothal to Sansa during this past year, he not his father was the most thankful. His father may be pleased with how the Bolton family had solidified its hold in the north through the Starks. Domeric, however, would always believe that it was him who got more out of this then his father.

He turned to meet the stare of the heart tree.

Domeric could only wonder would this be where he and Sansa would one day make their vows to become husband and wife. Here at her home, Winterfell the seat of the Starks, and the power of the north; where all of the north would attend to witness the union of Bolton and Stark. Domeric found himself liking the idea and knew it would mean more to Sansa too.

A twinge of soreness bloomed in his legs causing him to blink. He readjusted himself to keep himself from getting too stiff. He bowed his head once more, finding his thoughts were drifting more on his family's seat and sigil since the betrothal was announced.

The Dreadfort often conjured dark thoughts and terrors that were only strengthened by histories and tales of the Boltons who came before him. The flayed man was a testament to the cruelty that his family wielded without hesitance.

He sighed.

The history of his family churned so many emotions and thoughts for the Bolton heir. He sometimes wondered if his family's sigil was an outdated symbol of a practice that has long since been outlawed. That it was a dark cloud that would loom over his family and its seat for the remainder of time.

How could he cloak someone as fair as Sansa with the flayed man?

He too could not ignore the idea of what he would say to their future children when they asked about their family sigil. Domeric remembered his own reaction upon truly understanding the history and malice behind his family's personal coat of arms. He had been sick and ashamed.

Those feelings were eventually tempered as time passed. He learned to value the influence that the flayed man could bring. He understood the effect it had on the people. The reputation it carried brought with it certain rewards that Domeric had taken advantage of.

Domeric wondered if his Aunt had the right of it. How her personal banner paid homage to her husband's house: The Dustins and her family: The Ryswells.

She often told him that he was just as much a Ryswell as he was a Bolton. That he should be proud of his mother's family, and the history it carried. Mayhaps, he should do something similar. Create his own personal banner that quartered the Bolton flayed man and the Ryswell horsehead.

That idea did not last because he knew at once his father would be opposed to such a thing. The Lord of the Dreadfort would call such a creation an abomination and an insult to their family's history. That the Bolton name was never anything to be ashamed of, that the actions of their ancestors should not be forgotten. The accomplishments of their predecessors should be celebrated not ignored.

"Dom?"

He smiled quickly at the sound of Sansa's voice. Her soothing voice eased away the headache that had cropped up when he started thinking about his family's name and history.

Those were of the past.

What he cared for now was the family that he and Sansa would one day be. That enticing thought only made his smile grow.

"My lady," he moved to greet her.

"I'm not interrupting am I?" She sounded worried.

"No, I was just thinking," he assured her.

"What about?"

He didn't want to dwell or discuss his family's past. "I was thinking of the blessings that the gods have bestowed upon me." He emphasized his point by taking her hands in his.

She smiled, a faint redness coloring her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and warm when they met his. "You are not the only one who is thankful."

"You honor me, my lady." His eyes drifted from hers and then to her soft lips. Remembering the first kiss they shared in the glass gardens the morning after their betrothal had been announced. He had wanted to kiss her again since then, but the times they shared had been few and none of which had they been alone.

They're alone now, he pointed out.

He leaned towards her to see she was mirroring him and soon their lips connected. He breathed in her sweet aroma. Unlike, the first one that lasted a few seconds, their lips lingered, becoming accustomed to the feelings and sensations that were coursing through them. After what felt like a minute, they broke the kiss.

He was unable to stop from smiling. Sansa's face was a bit flushed, but still she was smiling. Their hands were still entwined.

He looked to the weirwood tree, its melancholy face staring back at him. The rustle of its leaves sent an unfamiliar shiver through the heir to the Dreadfort. It was almost as if he could feel the old gods giving their blessing to their union.

That thought gave him more comfort then he could ever describe.

"We should head back," Sansa's words stirred him.

"Yes, we should," Domeric turned his gaze away from the weirwood tree. "Your father may send a search party after us."

"You sound worried?"

"I know better than to upset a Stark."

"And don't forget it," she reminded him in a feigned haughty voice that had the both of them laughing.

In that moment of levity Domeric found clarity. Seeing his lovely betrothed with him, he knew where his focus should be.

So he allowed his thoughts on his family's past ebb away. He could not change his family's history.

He shouldn't fret over the future; so he put aside his concerns for things that have yet to come. The future would wait.

Sansa looped her hand through his arm while they began making their way back to the castle. 

Domeric was going to embrace the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone for the support that you've given this story.
> 
> I'm always humbled to receive a bookmark or a kudos for this story. To know that this story is catching interest is a rewarding feeling. And that's thanks to you.
> 
> It's also wonderful to get comments, to read from the audience their thoughts/opinions on the story and to see them engaged with this story or the plot or its characters. It serves as great motivation to receive such feedback and to spur me to continue to update this story on this site.
> 
> Thank you,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	10. Sansa

"Isn't she precious?" Sansa couldn't help but gush at the beautiful tiny pup that was lounging on her bed. The direwolf's yellow eyes were resting on Sansa. She couldn't keep the smile off her face sitting on the bed gently petting the pup's soft fur.

"You two are quite attached," Domeric observed. He was sitting on the floor, head resting on the bed, his brown eyes on her and the pup.

"We are."

It was from the beginning, she knew. As soon the pups were presented to her, when Sansa's eyes met this one she couldn't describe the feeling that passed, but she knew this pup was intended for her. It was as if a bond had formed between them in that moment and without hesitation Sansa declared this one was hers. She hadn't cared that this pup was the smallest of the litter. That just made Sansa more determined to take care of it so she could reach her full potential.

"Do you think she's still thirsty?"

"We can see," Sansa got up from the bed and moved across the room to a towel that was resting in a bowl on her dresser. The towel had been soaked in warm milk. She gently dabbed her finger on the cloth and was pleased to note it was still warm. She brought it over to the bed and sat back down, picking up the pup and putting her in her arms and gently guided the towel so that the pup could slurp from it.

The pup quickly began lapping up the milk from the cloth.

Domeric chuckled, and Sansa couldn't help but smile at watching the pup vigorously suckling the towel. She turned over to her betrothed and her smile only widened when their eyes met.

It had been a year since they're betrothal had been announced. In that time, Sansa had been incredibly happy. Every day that passed she remained thankful towards her parents for making this match. She wasn't sure she could imagine a better man to be her husband then him.

She found happiness anytime she was in his company. Whether it was with her parents, with her siblings, or just the two of them, she relished it all. Though she did like the stolen kisses they had shared in the gardens or in the Godswood. The memories of those moments were strong enough to bring a blush to her cheeks and a cooling sensation to her tummy.

"You should thank your brothers."

Domeric's words interrupted her reminiscing, she turned to him; he must have sensed her confusion since he clarified, "About being able to keep the direwolf pups."

"What do you mean?"

"Some in your father's party wanted to have them killed," the sad look that covered Domeric's face conveyed his opinion on that idea, "But it was Robb and Jon that stopped him."

"Really?" Sansa looked down at the pup that was enjoying herself, suckling up the warm milk dripping from the towel. She felt a cold tendril coil itself around her heart at the possibility of her father killing the innocent puppies.

"Yes," Domeric confirmed grimly. "Jon convinced Lord Stark that you were supposed to have them."

"Suppose to have them?"

"The sigil of your family," Domeric reminded her, "three boys, two girls."

"You're forgetting something," Sansa saw his frown. She scooped up the pup in her arms and presented her to him. "She's ours."

Domeric's eyes widened at the gesture, as he accepted the pup into his arms, bringing her to his chest where the pup started licking his neck and chin. "I think that's enough," Domeric gently pulled the pup placing her on his lap.

Sansa couldn't help but giggle at the sight. She sat on the bed beside him, her hand going through his hair. He responded to her touch with a content sigh that made Sansa smile. He leaned his head back so that he could see her face.

"You don't-"

"No, Dom," she knew what he was going to say. "She's ours."

Domeric smiled, "Alright." She caressed his cheek, while he brought his hand to rest on top of hers. "So what should we name her?"

Sansa looked down at the direwolf pup that was curled up on his lap. The well behaved, gentle direwolf pup was not the expected behavior from a wild animal. At seeing how the pup was behaving a name suddenly came to her.

"Lady."

\---------

"He wasn't what I was expecting."

"Quiet," Sansa hushed her older brother. They were making their way back inside the castle. She looked back out into the yard where the king's golden banners continued to flutter in the northern wind. She had heard her mother proclaim more than three hundred had traveled with the King and the royal family. She scanned the area to see that the Queen, her brother, and the royal family had already departed the courtyard.

The last thing she wanted was for one of them to overhear her brother's words. Not that she could deny the truth in them. She too found herself disappointed when presented with the large man with many chins who presented himself as the King of Westeros. He was nothing like the stories her father use to tell about the Rebellion. She couldn't believe that this man who when he got off his horse became winded to be the same man who had defeated Prince Rhaegar at the Trident.

She and the others were headed back to their chambers to prepare for the feast that was being held that night to honor the King and the royal family's visit to Winterfell.

"Did you see the prince?" Robb mocked, "Jon says he looks like a girl."

"That's an insult to girls," Domeric added with a laugh.

She could hear Robb snorting from where he was walking in front of her, she too couldn't help but let out a giggle at their observations. Her first impression on the prince wasn't very flattering if she was honest. He may have been handsome if he wasn't scowling or sneering. The way he took in Winterfell, her home as if it was nothing but mud beneath his boot had stirred an anger in her that she didn't know she possessed.

Sansa often hadn't cared for Winterfell in the past. Yearning to go south to see the rest of the Kingdoms that she knew only about in songs, but she came to appreciate the north and her home. She had underestimated its beauty, a realization she didn't quite understand until Domeric came to Winterfell. His eagerness to explore the castle and his unguarded appreciation of its beauty was contagious.

"Where is Jon?" Domeric looked around, wanting to hear more of Jon's opinion on the Prince. He was disappointed, that he couldn't find him, "I'll just seek him out during the feast."

"If you can find him," there was sadness in Robb's voice.

Sansa understood why. She knew with the royal family in the Winterfell that they probably wouldn't be seeing a lot of their brother. She had always treated Jon kindly, but she had often made a distinction with him in her mind. He was only her half brother not her real brother.

Thinking about it now she felt ashamed. At the same time she also felt torn because of her mother and her feelings on Jon. Sansa didn't want to upset her. She found herself caught between wanting to treat Jon like her brother and a member of the family and trying not to hurt her mother.

"Honestly, I wouldn't worry about Jon," Domeric said bluntly, "In fact I'm sure he probably pities you two tonight."

"What are you talking about?" Robb frowned.

"I mean tonight you and Sansa will be spending the evening entertaining the Prince and the royal family."

Robb groaned at this revelation which only made Domeric laugh.

Sansa shared her brother's disappointment upon being reminded at how they were going to spend the evening. However, she was better rehearsed at keeping those feelings from bubbling up. She would be courteous to their guests. She'd treat them with respect and kindness even when the Prince had shown them nothing but contempt.

She wouldn't let his failings corrupt her. She was better that that.

\--------

Laughter bounced off of the corridors of Winterfell. Music seemed to fill every room in the castle. Troupes of musicians had come with the King and the royal family in hopes of getting recognition or even commissions to perform back in the southern kingdoms when the king and his entourage returned.

Sansa moved away from it.

She should've been enthralled by everything about the King's visit. The Queen's beautiful dresses, the shimmering armor of the southern knights, the entourage of the King's party, even the Prince himself would've probably captured her attention and affection.

Witnessing it now it all seemed so hollow. It all felt superficial.

The king drank heavily and spent most of the feast with various women on his lap none of them being his wife and queen. The Queen who many believed the most beautiful woman in Westeros couldn't even get her own husband to look her way. The knights were vain and rude. They reveled in drinks and had hands that wandered. The dogs that were sniffing around the tables for scraps were more polite then these anointed men.

Sansa could see through the veneer of these people. She detected the anger and bitterness that was well hidden behind the Queen's pretty smile and sweet words. She spotted the petulance and arrogance of the Prince beneath his noble behavior.

The music of the bards could never match how Domeric played the harp. He didn't do it for riches or recognition. His heart motivated him. He played for Sansa because he knew she enjoyed it. The thought kindled warmth in her chest. He wanted her to be happy so he played her songs. 

It was perfect.

Despite the atmosphere of the feast, Sansa had had her fill for the evening. Her time with the Prince and his siblings had been strained. She tried to be a good listener to the Prince's obviously fabricated stories. It was almost amusing at how he perceived himself. He believed himself charming when all she could see was his arrogance.

Thankfully, she had been rescued by Dom. He had sensed her distress and moved over to where she was sitting and asked her to dance with him. She politely excused herself from the Prince, but on the inside she was elated to be free from him. Even though she thought she hid her feelings well she couldn't fool Dom who only laughed as they started in on the dance.

There, she stayed in his arms as the music swirled around them. She was blissfully ignorant of everyone around them. She didn't have to think about the King's visit. She didn't have to pretend to care about the Prince's story. She didn't have to act as if she liked being in the Queen's presence.

When the music played and they danced it was only him and her. It had been a needed reprieve and a welcomed distraction.

After their dancing had finished, Domeric had told her that he was slipping out of the feast to try to meet up with Jon and share a drink. Robb was trying to escape as well and he told her she should too. Sansa agreed. She much rather spend the evening with her brothers, and Domeric laughing and talking under the starry skies above them; then to remain in the hall with these selfish and foolish strangers.

That had been fifteen minutes ago.

She had excused herself from her seat and had been given permission from her parents to leave. Sansa was sure she had seen an amused glint in her father's eyes when she asked to retire for the evening. She wondered if he knew or suspected what she and the others had planned to do.

"Lady Sansa?"

Stirred from her thoughts she turned to see the Prince approaching her. She was quick to curtsey; "Prince Joffrey."

"Please stand, my lady," he encouraged her.

Sansa obeyed. She looked to see his sworn shield, the Hound standing nearby. She tried not to shudder at the tall, intimidating knight with the burned face.

"Does he frighten you, my lady?"

"I meant no disrespect," she quickly apologized.

"Leave us, dog," Prince Joffrey dismissed in a rude, contemptuous tone.

"My prince," The Hound answered in a deep, gravelly voice. He stepped into the shadows and out of sight.

"Is that better, my lady?"

"You did not have to send him away."

A scowl darkened the Prince's face. "It seems I can't please you this evening."

"I meant no offense," Sansa bowed her head. She could hear his steps coming closer to her and she steadied herself.

"It's such a pity." He drawled, "That a beauty such as you will be left to wilt here in the north."

She felt his finger on her chin as he lifted her face up to meet his green eyes. Sansa restrained herself from looking revolted at his touch. He would've been handsome if not for the dark glint in his eyes, or the arrogance that covered his face or the haughtiness that seemed to seep into his every movement.

"You are too kind." Sansa chose her words carefully.

He smiled at that, a sickly, ugly looking smile that made his lips resemble fat worms. "You would thrive in the south, my lady."

"I belong to the north," Sansa answered politely. Uncomfortable with his closeness to her she took a step back only to find herself against the corridor wall.

"With your betrothed?" He sneered. "I could make you a queen." He moved closer, "My queen."

She hid her anger at how he referred to Domeric. He's a better man then you'll ever be, she thought. "I am betrothed."

"That could change," the Prince let his offer hang, a confident smirk spread across his fat lips.

"No, you can't," she whispered before she could stop herself. She felt her tummy tighten at the thought of the Prince annulling her betrothal to Domeric. He was who she wanted. It was only him. She felt an icy claw of fear clasp itself around her heart.

"You refuse me?" His nostrils flared. "I AM YOUR PRINCE!"

You will never be my prince, she thought. "Please," she met his stare without flinching. She wouldn't allow herself to be cowed by him. She was Sansa Stark: A direwolf of the north. This was her home and she refused to let him make her feel afraid here.

"I want to go back to my room."

"You don't have my permission to leave." He blocked her escape. "You throw away my offers of kindness." He shook his head. "You can't reject me!"

"I just did."

The Prince's face twitched. "You're a stupid little girl."

Sansa said nothing. She wouldn't dignify his little tantrum with a response. His words meant nothing to her. The sooner he realized that, the sooner he'd understand she didn't want anything to do with him.

It seemed her choice not to respond to his insults had riled the Crown Prince. "You think you're better than me?" He pointed an angry finger at her. "Believe you're better then a Prince?"

There was a mad look in his eyes. She met his madness with defiance. She would not bend to him.

"Sansa?"

Relief filled her at the sound of his voice. She turned to see Dom and Robb approaching them from the other end of the corridor. Sansa could detect the dislike that lingered behind Domeric's eyes as his lips formed a thin line. When they were close enough both northern heirs stopped and tipped their heads a fraction to the Prince.

"Come, Sansa," Domeric offered his arm to her and presented her with a smile.

Sansa returned it. "Excuse me, my prince," she recited the words perfectly before taking her betrothed's arm.

She never looked back at the fuming prince. He wasn't worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone for the support that you've given this story.
> 
> I'm always humbled to receive a bookmark or a kudos for this story. To know that this story is catching interest is a rewarding feeling. And that's thanks to you.
> 
> It's also wonderful to get comments, to read from the audience their thoughts/opinions on the story and to see them engaged with this story or the plot or its characters. It serves as great motivation to receive such feedback and to spur me to continue to update this story on this site.
> 
> Thank you,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	11. Arya

Arya wasn't sure what to make of the news.

It had been announced that morning that a betrothal had been agreed between her brother, Robb and the Princess Myrcella Baratheon. Upon the condition that the Princess spends at least one year in Winterfell as a ward before their wedding was to take place. The time for the wedding would be agreed by the two families at a later date as would an agreed time to begin the fostering of the Princess.

Robb had taken the news calmly. He had given a smile when applause met the announcement. He didn't seem surprised by the news which made Arya suspect that their parents had already told him about the betrothal before it was announced.

The Princess meanwhile had looked nervous and uncertain when the attention of the great hall had turned to her. She squirmed in her seat, eyes darting across the room. It was Robb who had come to her rescue. He had taken her hand in his and whispered something into her ear that seemed to have calmed her. After that, the Princess smiled easily at the attention.

"Arya," Septa Mordane's cold voice broke Arya out of her thoughts. She looked down to see her stitches were crooked again.

"Let me see your progress, Arya?" Septa Mordane held out her hand.

Reluctantly, Arya handed her work over to the Septa. She looked to see Jeyne smirking from where she sat. Beside her, Sansa had put her needlework on her lap before sending Arya a sympathetic look. 

"Arya," The Septa was shaking her head in dismay. "This will not do at all."

She felt tightness in her tummy at the Septa's reprimanding.

"Let me see," Sansa stepped out of her seat and all but glided over to the Septa.

Surprised at Sansa's words and sudden presence, the Septa recovered to hand it over to her.

"I'm not sure even your skilled hands can fix this, Sansa."

Sansa examined the stitch work in the light. Her lips pressed together as her fingers ran over the material.

"Nothing as exquisite as what you've done." The Septa continued in her endless showering of compliments towards Sansa.

It was enough to make Arya roll her eyes and stick out her tongue. She was careful not to do either of those. She'd probably be scolded by the Septa of how it wasn't lady like. 

"Perhaps not," Sansa reluctantly admitted before handing it over to the Septa, but her eyes were on Arya. "However, my sister thrives in other areas." At those words she gave Arya an encouraging smile. "She far exceeds my skill in numbers." She took a seat beside Arya. "Maester Luwin says she's quite talented."

"Be that as it will," the Septa sniffed, unwilling to acknowledge Arya was good at anything. "It is still important that Arya learns and masters her needlework."

"And she will," Sansa's tone was confident, "but in her own time." She laid a comforting hand on Arya's arm.

Before the Septa could respond to Sansa, the door opened and a servant came in making his way to the Septa where he whispered something to her.

Arya watched the Septa's lips form a frown at what she was being told, whatever it was it didn't look like good news.

"There is something I must take care of," the Septa announced. "Continue with your needlework, I'll be back shortly." The Septa's eyes landed on each one of them but stayed on Arya the longest before she swept out of the room with the servant trailing behind, closing the door after them.

"Did you mean it?" Arya asked her sister as soon as the Septa had left.

"Every word," Sansa confirmed.

"Thanks," Arya muttered giving her older, prettier sister a smile of her own.

"Here," Sansa had given her some new cloth. "Watch me."

Arya never had the chance to watch because in that moment the door opened once more, but it wasn't the servant or the Septa returning. It was Lady; Sansa's direwolf padding into the room with an air of elegance.

"They're not suppose to be out," Jeyne had a nervous look, her eyes bugging out at the sight of the dire wolf who had grown considerably like the rest of her littermates since they had been rescued.

Arya wasn't sure what was more satisfying seeing Jeyne so terrified of Lady or how Lady had all but ignored her and made her way over to Sansa, who was beaming at the sight of her beloved direwolf.

It was when Lady moved closer did Arya notice a blue rose was loosely tied to Lady's collar and a folded parchment rested beneath it.

Sansa saw this as well. Her smile only widened when she took the rose. She gave it a slight sniff and Arya could smell the sweet scent that the flower emitted. It was then that her older sister opened up the folded note and Arya saw her blush while her eyes scanned the contents of it.

From her angle, Arya couldn't read it, but she knew it was from Domeric. The flower, the note, the presentation of it all, it hadn't been the first time he had made such a gesture to Sansa since they had become betrothed.

"Oh Dom," Sansa whispered in an amused tone.

"What?" Arya found herself asking.

"Come on," Sansa stood up gracefully.

"Where are we going?" Arya followed her sister's lead.

"You can't leave," Jeyne hissed. "The Septa said we couldn't leave."

Sansa regarded her friend for a moment, "Tell her something came up." Without another word, Sansa left the room with Lady at her heels, and Arya followed close behind knowing she wasn't moving with the same grace or confidence that her sister seemed to carry effortlessly.

It wasn't until they were out of the corridor that Arya confronted her sister. "Sansa?" She moved to step in front of her, "What's going on?"

Arya was surprised by the mischievous glint that seemed to shimmer in Sansa's eyes. Her lips curved upwards before she spoke, "I thought we could use a break from needlework."

"Where are we going?"

"Don't you want to see our brother putting the Prince in his place?"

She remembered that the boys were supposed to be in the practice yard at this hour. The thought of Robb beating Joffrey was enough to make Arya chuckle and nod her head in agreement. 

"I thought so," Sansa sounded pleased that Arya had agreed with her.

"What about the note?"

"That had something else," Sansa blushed prettily looking down at her hands that were holding the letter and the rose.

Arya decided not to comment. "Can I get Nymeria?"

Sansa nodded, "Of course." She affectionately patted the top of Lady's head when she spoke. "They're meant to be with us."

Arya grinned at that and the two Stark sisters went to get Nymeria who eagerly greeted Arya when she untied her. Arya hugged her tightly. She missed her greatly. She didn't like that she had to be separated with her during the day. Nymeria responded to her hug by licking her ear and Arya giggled.

Nymeria and Lady sniffed each other before Nymeria gave her littermate an affectionate nip on the ear. With Nymeria free, Arya followed Sansa who led her towards the covered bridge that connected the armory to the Great Keep. It would be the perfect place for them to see the whole yard and hopefully allow them to view their brother beating the Prince soundly.

When they arrived, Arya spotted there were others who were already there.

Jon was sitting on the sill, and looked to be in deep conversation with Domeric, who was leaning against the sill, his back to the yard; a serious look covered his face. The two were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn't notice Arya and Sansa's arrival until Ghost, Jon's direwolf moved to meet them.

Jon sent them a curious look, lingering on Arya, but his expression remained impassive. Domeric was the opposite upon seeing Sansa; he gave her a smile before moving to meet her.

Arya noticed the happy smile that Sansa was quick to return. He kissed her cheek, before giving Lady a soft pat on the head. "So you got my letter?"

"We did," Sansa held up the letter before gesturing to the rose with the other hand, "Thank you for this."

Domeric grinned. "I couldn't help myself. You inspire me. " He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her lips.

Arya looked away meeting Jon's eyes. She stuck out her tongue and he rolled his eyes. They had grown use to these displays between Sansa and Domeric. And they enjoyed playfully ribbing the pair of them on it whenever they got a chance.

"Where's Robb?" Arya badly wanted to see her brother beat the Prince.

"Robb's down there," Jon pointed to the yard below. Arya followed his finger to see her brother; Bran heavily padded trading hits with the plump Prince Tommen, who was equally padded. Ser Rodrik looked on to make sure no harm came to the boys even with all the protective gear being used.

There were more than a dozen spectators. The loudest among them was Robb, Arya spotted him easily, and Theon was beside him. On the other side of the yard she spotted the other Prince, surrounded by men dressed in Lannister red.

"The prince is a little shit," Jon observed bitterly.

"You may be on to something, Jon." Domeric chuckled. "Lords and Ladies, we present to you, His Shittiness, Joffrey Baratheon."

The words coupled by Domeric's dramatically exaggerated delivery had them all laughing. Even Sansa had joined them and Arya had never thought to see or hear her sister laughing at something so crude and inappropriate.

"What about the Princess?" Arya couldn't see her anywhere. "Where is she?"

"She was outside," Domeric answered, "but the Queen summoned her back inside."

"I don't like her," Arya decided, "she's stupid."

Jon chuckled at that. "You hardly know her."

"Still," Arya wasn't convinced there was much substance to the older Princess.

"She's no Joffrey," Sansa pointed out.

"Thank the gods for that," Domeric added, "For Robb's sake."

"She's like you," Arya immediately regretted it.

"Like me?" Sansa furrowed her brows. Her eyes were looking at Arya closely. "So you think I'm stupid?"

Arya squirmed under her sister's stare. It seemed more intimidating then she remembered. "I used to." She admitted quietly, "but not anymore," she was quick to amend.

"The Princess is like the old you," Arya wanted to keep talking because she didn't like the way her sister was staring at her. "But you're different now, you've changed." Arya looked down at her shoes. "You're nicer to me," she sniffed, not knowing why she felt tears in her eyes, "You stick up for me."

Whether it was from this morning when Sansa defended her from the Septa's scolding or how she now stopped Jeyne from calling her horse face. Sansa had looked out for her more in the past few months.

"And you like to spend time with me," Arya finished. "I like that."

Before she could say or do anything she felt Sansa's arms wrap around her and Arya welcomed her sister's embrace. She returned it with equal fervor, burying her face in her sister's dress, feeling tears beginning to leak out of her eyes, but she didn't care.

"I'm sorry," Sansa whispered into her ear, "that I wasn't a better sister to you then." She squeezed Arya tightly.

They stayed like that for a few minutes. Eventually, they pulled away, Arya scrubbed her eyes with the back of her arm. She stopped when she felt her sister's hand under her chin guiding her to look up and meet her eyes. Arya could see Sansa's eyes shimmering with unshed tears and she gave Arya a watery smile which Arya returned.

"I'm sorry about your dress," Arya's tears had left their mark on Sansa's pretty dress.

Sansa laughed it off. "It's quite alright," she assured her. "I have other dresses."

"A lot more," Domeric chimed in, earning a chuckle from Jon and a stare from Sansa that caused Domeric's smile to falter before disappearing.

Arya laughed. Domeric looked at her and his smile returned before sending her a wink.

She then turned to Jon who looked at her fondly before messing up her hair. Arya pouted which had Jon smiling.

"We should be going, Dom." Sansa reminded him. She had her arm tucked into his. Lady was beside her.

He nodded, "of course." He then turned to Jon. "Will you consider my offer, Jon?"

"I will," Jon said stiffly.

"It's a good alternative."

Arya couldn't miss the pleased looks from Domeric and Sansa at Jon's words. Before she could ask them where they were going or what they were talking about. The two said their goodbyes and left with Lady following.

"What's going on?" Arya turned to Jon.

"It's nothing," Jon told her in a tone that conveyed he wanted the subject dropped.

"It is something," Arya wasn't fooled.

"Don't worry about it."

"I'm not a child!" she protested, "you can tell me."

He didn't look at her when he spoke, "I'm taking the Black."

\------------------------------

"You wanted to see me?" Arya stepped into her father's study to see she hadn't been the only one summoned. She spotted Sansa sitting on one of the sofas, Domeric was with her.

"I did, child." Father gave her an encouraging smile. He was standing in front of the fireplace; Mother was sitting in a chair near him. Maester Luwin was off to the side.

Arya took a seat.

"As you know, your father has accepted the King's offer to make him Hand of the King," her mother started. "Which means he will be riding south to King's Landing."

"Sansa," Father said, "The Queen has requested your presence."

"My presence?" Sansa repeated, blinking owlishly at this revelation.

"Yes," Father confirmed grimly.

"The Queen hopes for a friendship to form between you and the Princess," Mother spoke up, "To help make it easier for the Princess when she returns north to serve as a ward before she is to marry Robb."

Arya noticed father's expression remained stoic and it looked like he didn't quite believe what mother was saying about the Queen's justification of having Sansa come to the capital.

"Do I have to go?" Sansa whispered, with a worried look in her eyes.

"Aye," Father said, looking at her with a look of pity and understanding. "It is unwise to refuse a Queen's request."

"I'll go to then," Domeric volunteered, holding Sansa's hand in his.

Father smiled at that. "That'll be up to your father, Domeric."

Domeric didn't seem put off by that. "I'll speak with him."

"I'd be honored to have you accompany me south, Domeric," he said sincerely. "You would stay at the Tower of the Hand with my household if your father consents."

"Thank you, Lord Stark," Domeric replied.

Sansa looked thankful at the thought that she wouldn't be going to the capital alone.

"What about me?" Arya had no desire to go to the capital. She hated the Queen, the Prince, and the royal family and pretty much everyone who traveled with them.

"Originally, we would have you go south with your Father, Sansa, and Bran," Mother began before sending Father a look. "But we've decided something different for you."

"Yes," he picked up where she left off. "I've written to Maege Mormont and she has agreed to let you foster at Bear Island."

"Really?" She couldn't believe it.

It was well known in the north of the martial skills that the Mormont women and all the women of Bear Island picked up. The defenses of their villages and holdfasts fell on the women when the men went fishing. Even when the men were there, many women took up sword and shield and fought for their families and for House Mormont to defend themselves from Ironborn and Wildling attacks.

"Really," Father confirmed with a warm smile. "Dacey Mormont will be handling your training and to make sure you are more than capable of defending yourself. She will help train you to take care of and use armor, and weapons."

"Thank you!" Arya was beaming when she shot out of her seat to her father where he laughed as he picked her up and hugged her tight.

"You're welcome, child." He said in her ear. He put her down after a moment, still smiling warmly at her.

"However," Mother's voice brought Arya to look back at her and to see her eyes shone with happiness that Arya was pleased at their decision. "It is still expected of you to continue and improve your needle work."

"I will," Arya affirmed quickly, not missing the smile on Mother's face.

"Once your fostering at Bear Island is complete," Father went on, "You will return to Winterfell for a short time before going south to learn the ways of a Southron court. We are expecting you to take these lessons of the south if not with the same enthusiasm then with the same effort as your martial lessons."

"I will," Arya swore. 

The idea of her going south having only been delayed was a bit disappointing for her. She had no interest in the south. No desire to be a noble, genteel lady. However, she wasn't about to complain. It would be years before she'd have to go anyways. By then, she'd be a trained warrior. She'd be able to handle any spoiled southerners who would try to bother her.

Yes, she could make that small sacrifice. If it meant she was allowed to go to Bear Island to train under Dacey Mormont then she could go south too. Arya understood the compromise her parents were making for her. They were willing to encourage her interests when other families wouldn't. She wasn't about to jeopardize that.

"I promise."

Arya wouldn't let them down. She was going to do her best to make her family proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like exploring/writing the different Stark dynamics and relationships between the family.
> 
> Thanks for the wonderful support you continue to give this story. 
> 
> It really means a lot to me. 
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	12. Domeric

"You're surprised to see me," His father was not one to waste time.

"I am." Domeric had expected a letter in the form of his father's answer if he could go to the capital with Lord Stark, instead he received his father in person with an armed escort of more than twenty men arriving to Winterfell.

After a brief exchange of courtesies between the Lords of Winterfell and Dreadfort, the men brought with Lord Bolton were sent to the hall to enjoy food and drink after their journey. Domeric had escorted his father to his personal chambers.

"I won't be staying long," His father looked around the room. "I thought it was better to speak in person then trust our words to maesters and ravens."

Domeric hid his confusion at his father's vagueness, knowing the meaning would be revealed when his father was ready, and not a moment before.

"You're already packed," His father noted, gesturing to one of Domeric's closed trunks.

"I thought it was prudent."

"Prudent?" A hint of amusement could almost be detected in his father's tone.

"Yes," Domeric answered, "I'm either traveling south to King's Landing or returning to the Dreadfort. Regardless, of your decision, my time in Winterfell is at an end." A pang of melancholy bloomed in his chest at the sad reminder. He cherished his time here these past two years.

"Wise," his colorless eyes looked at Domeric with what he hoped was approval. "I've decided to grant you permission to go south."

A sense of relief washed over Domeric at his father's decision. Pleased, and thankful that he would be allowed to go with Sansa to King's Landing.

"I had already written a letter to Lord Stark to inform him of my decision and of my unannounced visit," his father continued. "I had also asked that he respect my wishes of letting me tell you myself," his father finished as if sensing Domeric's unasked question of why he hadn't been informed earlier.

"The men I brought with me will serve as your armed escort while you're in the capital. They are under the command of Captain Rylen."

Domeric had expected as much when he saw such a large company of men accompany his father to Winterfell. Since he knew his father often traveled and rode with few if any men when he left the Dreadfort.

"There were things I wanted to know that I would not get in a letter."

He tried not to flinch under his father's gaze.

"I was curious with why you'd seek to go south," his father's eyes remained on him; "When I thought your intentions were to come back to the Dreadfort as soon as you were able."

"Something changed."

His father raised an eyebrow at that. "You're concerned."

"I am," Domeric had been concerned ever since he saw Sansa's reaction when she had been told that the Queen had invited her to tend to the Princess. The fear in her eyes, the nervousness of her tone as she accepted it. What kind of man would he be to allow her to go alone?

"Your concern is warranted," his father admitted, "It is true, the king is ruled by his sentiments when it comes to the Starks."

His father voiced the word sentiment with such distaste it was as if he had said the king liked to devour children before supper.

"He is obsessed with joining the stag and the wolf."

"He's already succeeded, father," Domeric pointed out.

"The King's appetites are not so easily sated," Lord Bolton replied coolly. "He wanted a Stark Queen for himself, and now wants one for his son and heir."

Never, Domeric wanted to growl, but he stopped himself. It would due him no good to lose his composure in front of his father. The anger churned in his gut at thinking of his betrothal with Sansa to be broken and set aside so that she would have to marry that monster in the skin of a Crown Prince.

"You care for the girl," the corner of his father's lips curved upwards.

"She is to be my wife," Domeric tried his best to keep his tone flat.

"Don't allow your sentiment for the girl affect your judgment," his father warned him.

That was one of his father's first lessons, Domeric remembered being taught. He had been told feelings were trivial. That he was not expected to love his wife, but to perform his duty insuring the family's legacy lived on in the form of heirs, siring sons and daughters to help advance the family.

A lesson he had failed. He loved Sansa. A revelation that was still new to him. It was in Lord Stark's study when he told them of the Queen's invitation to her did Domeric grasp the depths of his feelings for Sansa Stark. It was that love that gave him strength. That encouraged him to speak up.

His father's attention shifted towards a direwolf that had been etched into the stone above Domeric's hearth. "Too much has been invested in securing our position to lose it on the whims of a man who can't let go of the past."

He spoke of Sansa as a castle that was to be lost, not as a person, a person that Domeric loved. He was use to his father's detachment, but it bothered him when it came to Sansa. She deserved better then to be treated as a thing, as a prize. Yet, he kept silent. Domeric was not brave enough to voice this to his father.

"We are on the precipice of establishing something no Bolton has ever accomplished." His father's hand gently brushed against the direwolf, "Do you know why the walls of Winterfell were built so high, Domeric?"

"Aye, father," Domeric was a bit confused by the sudden question, but he answered his father nonetheless. "To keep their enemies out."

"And House Bolton, our family were their greatest enemies," A touch of pride could be heard in his father's voice. "Twice our ancestors led armies to this castle, and successfully raided and burned it to the ground. The seat of the Stark family." His hand closed into a fist when it reached the head of the stone etching of the direwolf. "What you see before you, what we stand in now, is that reminder that this castle was built on the bones of their failures in their attempts to repel us."

Domeric knew these stories well. He was told of them constantly growing up in the Dreadfort by his maester. Of the greatness of his ancestors, and of the bitter rivalry that had formed between Winterfell and Dreadfort, of an animosity that stretched for centuries, stained with blood that was shed on both sides for the struggle of northern dominance, which only ended when Domeric's ancestors were defeated and finally bent the knee to House Stark.

"And yet, here we are, welcomed guests of House Stark and soon our two families will be entwined through marriage." His father turned away from the direwolf. "The North hasn't seen a union like this before, the binding of its two most powerful houses," His pale eyes now rested on Domeric. "We will not allow a southern king's ambitions thwart it now."

"I understand, father," Domeric said softly, still mulling over his father's words on their family's history and his plans for their future.

"Your stay in the south will not be long." His father revealed. "A few months in the capital should be all that is needed to fulfill the Queen's invitation." His father brought his hands behind his back.

"Then I will request Lord Stark to honor the terms of the betrothal agreement. The Lady Sansa Stark has already flowered and the Starks will feel obligated to accept. The King and Queen would be unwise to refuse. We have waited enough for this union to be sealed."

We? Domeric didn't like that. There was no we, if it included his father. This union was between Domeric and Sansa. It was for them and them alone. It may have been his father's idea, but Domeric wasn't going to allow that to control the marriage between him and Sansa.

"You two will be wedded at Winterfell, the seat of the Warden of the North and now Hand of the King then you two are to depart to the Dreadfort," his father pressed on, oblivious to Domeric's discomfort with his use of the term we.

"She will learn to run the household while you will be taught to rule the Dreadfort."

"A peaceful land, a quiet people," Domeric recited.

Lord Bolton inclined his head. "It's good to see you have remembered your lessons."

"I won't disappoint you, father."

"We'll see."

\--------------

"Bran," Sansa scolded in an exasperated tone. "You'll never be ready to leave at this rate."

"I'm too excited to pack!" was Bran's happy reply.

"If you do not pack, you do not go," Sansa reminded her brother, a trace of amusement in her tone.

Domeric couldn't help but smile as he heard the exchange between brother and sister. He had reached Bran's chambers where he had been told by a Stark servant that was where he would find Sansa. His meeting with his father over, he wanted to tell his betrothed the news of his permission of being allowed to go to the capital.

Instead of entering Bran's room, Domeric found himself lingering just outside of it, hesitant to intrude on the playful interactions between siblings. Glancing into the chambers to see Bran's trunk was open, with several clothes spewing out of it, including a pair of breeches that hung on the bottom lip of the trunk resembling a brown tongue.

An excited Bran was moving throughout the room, pretending to wield a sword, dashing left and right in some mock duel. Arya was standing before him, his opponent, blocking his invisible sword before attacking him with her own, the brother and sister, laughing and shouting as their pretended battle heated up.

Domeric spotted Sansa bustling around the chambers picking up Bran's discarded clothes before dropping them onto his bed where Nymeria and Bran's direwolf watched their respected master in combat with alert eyes and swishing tails.

"Can you believe it?" Bran exclaimed. "I'm going to the capital!" He spun away from Arya's attack with a laugh. "I'm going to see real knights!"

"So what," Arya replied, unimpressed, "I'll be at Bear Island," she declared proudly, "and will learn how to fight!"

Bran looked at his sister with a wide smile. "Then we'll have to test our skills next time we meet."

Arya matched her brother's smile. "I'll win."

Bran shook his head, smile intact, "I'll be taught by Barristan the Bold! The best swordsman in the seven kingdoms."

"I'll beat him too!" Arya didn't seem the least bit bothered by the challenge.

"Brandon Stark," Sansa cut through the sibling's banter, "You're not going anywhere until you pack and fold your clothes properly." She had her hands on her hips when she faced Bran with an intimidating stare that she had clearly inherited from their mother. Lady was sitting by her mistress' feet looking to try to resemble the stare Sansa was currently giving them.

Bran sheepishly bowed his head, "Of course," he said quickly, "I was just taking a break."

Sansa's serious façade crumbled in an instant to show her smiling and shaking her head, "I know," she moved to stand in front of him, "but it's important that you're ready to leave. You wouldn't want to have father and the king waiting, would you?"

He sheathed his fake sword with a flourish. "No," Bran moved to pick up one of the many shirts that still lingered on the floor.

"Nymeria can help you," Arya offered.

"Arya," Sansa sounded tired, like the sisters had had this conversation before.

"She can!" Arya protested.

Not for the first time did Domeric feel a stab of envy in his chest at seeing the Stark siblings together, laughing and playing. And having him wonder what it'd be like to experience just a fraction of the obvious joy and love they had for each other with siblings of his own. The melancholy lasted only for a few heartbeats before it passed, knowing how much the Starks had endeared themselves to him, and how much fun he's had with them these past two years just as with the Redforts before them. They were not bound by blood like siblings, but it didn't make their bond any weaker.

It was in these thoughts that he was spotted by Lady, who quickly left her mistress' side to greet Domeric. Her happy yipping, broke him from his introspection, as he bent down to greet the direwolf pup.

"Dom," Sansa's voice had a tinge of unease in it, "You're done speaking with Lord Bolton."

"I am," he stood up to see Sansa's blue eyes were looking at him. He saw the apprehension lurking beneath them and how her body went still and stiff. Fear, he knew at once. That she'd be alone in the south surrounded by lions. He hated to see her in such a way. So was quick to alleviate it when he added, "He's given me permission to go to King's Landing."

The happiness in Sansa's eyes made them shimmer, a dazzling smile followed as she cut the distance between them to embrace him.

He held her, soothing her with a kiss to her head, while his hands moved up and down her back, he felt a tremble beneath his fingers confirming his thoughts about how afraid she was of going to the capital alone.

"I'm not going to leave you," he murmured in her ear, "Not now, not ever.".

Those words got Sansa to pull away and look at him. Without speaking, she moved and kissed his cheek.

"That's wonderful, Dom!" Bran was next to congratulate him, dropping the shirt he was trying to fold onto the ground. "We can go riding along the Blackwater!" The boy's excitement was palpable, since he was oblivious to his sister's previous discomfort.

Domeric favored the young Stark with a smile. "I'd like that."

"You're still not gonna beat him, Bran," Arya was sitting on Bran's bed, petting Nymeria, whose head was on her lap.

"I could," Bran insisted, "One day, I will. Robb too."

Domeric chuckled, "That is possible." Always amused at the interactions between Bran and Arya, the two so close in age, and would often see them playing together whenever they could. At times, they seemed inseparable to Domeric. He wondered how difficult it would be for the two finally being separated and both away from home, Bran to the capital, and Arya to Bear Island.

Arya didn't seem too impressed. "Doesn't matter, because then I'll beat you."

"Nah-uh," Bran threw back.

"Uh-huh."

"Bran, pack!" Sansa cut in before the playful argument could go further.

Bran groaned, but didn't argue, retrieving his discarded shirt and putting it in his trunk, unfolded, before moving to grab a pair of slacks that his direwolf was sleeping on. A struggle that lasted several seconds as the direwolf pup seemed too comfortable to want to relinquish its position. It didn't help that it didn't have a name to respond to. Bran's direwolf was the only one of the Stark children still without a name.

"Any luck with a name, Bran?" Domeric asked, Bran was the only Stark who hadn't named his direwolf yet. Even the youngest Stark, Rickon had thought up a name for his, Shaggydog.

"No," Bran answered after successfully winning his slacks from his direwolf. "I'm still thinking."

"You better hurry," Arya told him, "You wait too long and someone else will name him!" Arya smiled, clearly liking the idea, "Maybe, I'll start calling him-"

"Don't," Bran warned her.

Arya only laughed.

Domeric shook his head before glancing over at Sansa who was watching her siblings with a smile tugging at her lips, but there were hints of exasperation creeping into her expression. He moved his hand to hold hers, to get her attention.

It worked, she turned to him, and he was pleased when he was the center of that smile, feeling his heartbeat quicken at such a beautiful sight. Sadly, he was pulled from his thoughts all too quickly when he heard voices being directed at him.

"Erh, what?" Domeric hadn't really been paying attention to the conversation that Bran and Arya had continued to have, as he had been distracted. He noticed Sansa's smile had turned mischievous, she raised an eyebrow at him, her eyes gleamed with mirth. He turned to see Arya and Bran were looking at him expectantly.

"Are you going on the hunt tomorrow?" Arya asked, emphasizing each word to make sure he'd heard the question. Her theatrics earned a laugh from Bran and a giggle from Sansa.

Even Domeric couldn't fight the smile that came to him at Arya's teasing. "No, I'm not."

"What?" Bran's eyes widened, "Why wouldn't you go?"

"Yeah," Arya was looking at him as she'd never seen him before. "You always go on the hunts. You love riding."

Domeric noticed that Sansa too looked surprised by his decision. "I think there are better ways to spend my last days in Winterfell then on a hunt." His eyes never left Sansa's.

Arya caught on first, her attention shifting from Domeric to Sansa, and then back. She rolled her eyes and pretended to gag. "Gross!"

"Arya," Sansa chastised her sister.

The younger sister didn't look the least bit apologetic. "I'd rather ride!"

"Even when you're older?" Domeric couldn't help but ask.

"Especially when I'm older!" Arya looked insulted at the mere suggestion.

"Me too!" Bran happily agreed, blissfully unaware of the topic that Arya was hinting at.

"Of course, you would," Sansa handed her brother one of his shirts. "Then you'd never have to pack."

Bran took the shirt with a sheepish look before letting out a nervous chuckle. "I haven't forgotten."

"I know you haven't," Sansa told him, "That's why you're not leaving this room until its done."

Bran groaned.

"Think of it this way, Bran," Domeric tried a different approach, "The quicker you finish here the more likely you are to go riding tonight before supper."

Bran's eyes lit up at that offer. His pace immediately quickened, moving throughout the room with unexpected speed grabbing shirts, slacks, socks, and other garments and putting them into his trunk.

"I want to ride too!" Arya put in, making sure her objections were heard and that they weren't ignored.

"That can be arranged," Domeric chuckled.

Satisfied, Arya quickly came to the realization that the sooner her brother packed, the sooner they could go riding. She then matched her brother's speed and energy in getting his things together for their trip south.

"Bribery, Dom?" Sansa's voice was to his ear, careful that her siblings didn't hear, as she and him stood off watching the two blur around Bran's room with their direwolves lounging on the beds.

"Not exactly," Domeric tried to defend himself, turning to see a stare that resembled Lady Stark being directed at him.

"Then what would you call it?"

He gave a light cough while trying not to squirm under that intimidating look. "I'll let you know when I think of a good name."

\----------

"You didn't have to stay you know," Sansa told him. "You could've gone on the hunt."

The following morning King Robert, Lord Stark, and a large party went out on a hunt to celebrate Lord Stark's acceptance as Hand to the King. Domeric had been one of the few able bodied men who decided to pass on the hunt. Instead of riding and hunting with southern strangers, Domeric was with his betrothed in the Godswood enjoying a small picnic, both wanting to enjoy their remaining time at Winterfell with the Royal Party and Lord Stark's party planning on leaving in the morning.

The two had settled into a nice peaceful silence, the weirwood tree looking down at their picnic, Lady lay between them, the direwolf pup growing at a remarkable pace.

"I'd rather spend the time with you," he reached over and took her hand. "Besides if I had gone on the hunt, the Prince may have met some sort of terribly tragic hunting accident."

"Dom," Sansa chastised him but there was no conviction in her tone.

"What?" He feigned innocence, "I said maybe."

She rolled her eyes and said nothing more on the matter.

His eyes remained on her. She looked stunning, wearing a blue dress in the northern style that made her eyes shimmer. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Some had claimed that title belonged to the Queen, but upon seeing her, Domeric couldn't agree.

The Queen's green eyes seemed hooded with contempt to all those they met. They didn't sparkle the way Sansa's tended to. Sansa's lips were always quick to a smile that would brighten any room. Not the Queen's, hers remained a thin, displeasing line. Sansa's laughter was music that could warm his heart, the Queen's didn't even sound natural the few times he had heard it. It was forced.

"You're beautiful."

She blushed. "You're too kind."

"Just honest," he grinned. He leaned in and captured her lips with his for a kiss that had his heart hammering against his chest. When he pulled away, he brushed his hand across her cheek. "I'm the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Oh Dom," she murmured, her eyes still half closed from their brief, but pleasing kiss. She rewarded his honesty with a second kiss that Domeric enjoyed just as much as the first before the two broke apart.

Still smiling, Domeric went back to his food, looking to see Sansa was picking at hers, but her attention didn't seem to be there. "Sansa?" His lips dipped into a thin line, pensive at his betrothed's shift in behavior.

She looked up at her name being called. "I was just thinking if Jon will accept your offer or not."

Said offer that that she was referring to was one he had made to Jon that would have him come back to the Dreadfort with them. In the hope that one day Jon would serve as the castle's master-at-arms. Domeric couldn't think of a better candidate to lead the castle's defense, oversee the training of the guards, and one day to teach his and Sansa's children swordplay.

"I don't think he will," Domeric admitted, "He sees it as charity."

"But it's not," she was clearly upset with her brother's choice to join the Night's Watch.

"I know," he assured her, "And I tried to tell him," he shook his head, "But he's set on this path."

"He's being stubborn."

"That's a common trait for you Starks," Domeric joked.

"Is that so?" she challenged.

"An endearing one," he amended quickly after finding himself the target of her unyielding blue stare.

A stare that quickly melted, looking at him with an amused look before she laughed. She affectionately ran her fingers through his hair. "Mayhaps, I'll have a talk with him." She sounded determined, "If he knew how important it was for us to have him with us maybe he would change his mind."

"Perhaps," he shrugged, but he wasn't sure they could change his mind.

Lady suddenly perked up from where she lay. Her amber eyes were looking out into the Godswood. She sniffed the air, but remained where she lay. Domeric followed the direwolf's eyes but saw nothing in the woods.

"What do you see?" He patted Lady's head.

Soon the moment ended and Lady turned back to him and gently nuzzled her head against his hand which had Domeric smiling as he petted her some more and was rewarded with a few licks from her rough tongue.

"It's probably one of the others," Sansa pointed out. "I haven't seen Bran or Arya since the hunt left."

"Probably," Domeric remembered how disappointed they had been when they weren't allowed to go on the hunt.

"Dom, about King's Landing," Sansa's voice was soft and unsure. "I don't like the Queen. I don't trust her."

He snorted, "I'd be disappointed if you did, my lady."

"What are we going to do?"

"Rely on each other," He squeezed her hand. "If we can do that then we can overcome anything the capital throws at us."

"You're right," she placed her hand on top of his. She looked around them, "I'm going to miss this. All of it."

"I know," Domeric understood, "Me too."

"This is my home," she whispered, "and I'm not sure I'll be coming back. Everything is changing." She ducked her head, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he put his finger on her chin so that he could see her beautiful eyes, "Don't ever apologize to me for speaking your mind."

She nodded, "thank you, Dom." Hesitance pulled at her features before she took a deep breath and continued, "It's just that after our stay in King's Landing, we will probably be married and I'm nervous about going somewhere new."

"The Dreadfort," he finished for her.

"Yes," she admitted shyly.

"I can understand that." Domeric was aware of the reputation his family and home had gotten for its bloody past. They did little to endear people to his family's seat; especially with a name like the Dreadfort. "You know it's not much of my home either."

Sansa furrowed her brows. "What do you mean?"

"I've spent less than a month there in the past six years," Domeric explained, "And that doesn't include my three years in Barrowton," he added, "I've spent more time away from the Dreadfort then I have there in my life."

It was then that he remembered something. He moved to go for his bag, rummaging around in it before finding what he was looking for. He pulled out a jug of Arbor Gold.

"Where did you get that?" Sansa was surprised by its sudden appearance.

"From Lord Tyrion," Domeric answered casually.

"I will never understand your newfound friendship with the Imp," Sansa said incredulously.

Domeric could only smile. "He's quite brilliant you know," he got out two cups that he had stashed in his bag. "We had a great talk on Ayrmidon's Engines of War the other night," Domeric opened the jug of Arbor Gold. Said Arbor Gold had been a parting present from Lord Tyrion when it was announced he and Sansa would be going to the capital.

"Here," he handed Sansa her glass. He only poured a little into both of their cups.

"Thank you," she was looking down at the contents of her glass.

"What I was trying to say," he continued before he had been distracted, "Is that together we can make the Dreadfort our home."

"I would like that," she smiled.

"Good," he was pleased. "And we will still visit Winterfell."

"Thank you, Dom." She kissed his cheek.

"To our future," he held his glass.

She repeated the words and they drank from their glasses to their toast on their future together. The sweetness of the wine brought with it a pleasant taste to Domeric's palate. He still preferred the stronger northern ales, but in terms of a southern drink it wasn't too bad.

The sudden howling of a wolf caused Domeric and Sansa to freeze in their spots. Lady sat up at once before shooting her head back and returning the mournful noise before she darted off out of the Godswood.

"Lady!" Sansa called after her direwolf, immediately getting to her feet. "Something's wrong," Sansa's eyes had a certain glaze to them. "I can't explain it," tears swelled in her eyes. "But I have this feeling."

Before Domeric could ask or press for more details, the wolf howled again.

"That's Bran's wolf," Sansa declared, and without another word, she left with Domeric trying to keep up.


	13. Robb

"You wanted to see me, father?" Robb walked into his father's study to find him standing in front of the window looking out at the grounds of Winterfell.

"I did," He turned to face him. His face stony, but there were hints beneath his grey eyes that Robb detected that signaled his father had gotten little sleep these past few days since Bran had been found outside the broken tower.

Robb quelled the anguish that tightly clasped itself around his heart. To see his young brother lying there on his bed, motionless, it unnerved him. This wasn't his energetic brother who liked to climb and fight and explore. The news that the Maester delivered on Bran's body had only deepened the pain and pity that Robb felt for his younger brother.

"As you know tomorrow I ride off with the King to serve as his Hand."

He said nothing. He had been somewhat hopeful that his father would resign as Hand at once upon Bran's fall, but he didn't.

"There must always be a Stark at Winterfell," his father recited, "When I went off to war at Robert's side during the Rebellion that Stark was Benjen .This time as I ride south you will be that Stark."

"I understand, father," Robb quickly replied. "I will not disappoint you."

"You can never be a disappointment, Robb," he assured him. "As long as you keep your honor, do your duty, and protect our family."

"I will," Robb swore.

"Good," he walked around his desk over towards him. His eyes never left his. "What will be some of your priorities once I leave?"

Robb was caught off guard by the abrupt question. It must have shown on his face.

"Think," his father encouraged him.

He did. Robb then remembered who his father would be taking to the capital. "Winterfell will need a new steward." He knew he was right when he saw his father's nod. "We will also need to appoint a new captain of the guards and a new horse master."

"Very good," his father praised, coming to stand in front of him. "Do not forget to speak to Maester Luwin. His council has helped me more times than I can count."

"I won't, father."

"I know," he put his hand on Robb's shoulder. "Your mother too will have good council too when..." His voice trailed off and his eyes became distant.

And Robb knew he was thinking of Bran, of how mother hadn't left Bran's side since they brought him to his room. She hadn't slept and barely eaten, and Robb would be lying to himself if he didn't say he wasn't worried for his mother's well being. And looking into his father's eyes, Robb was sure he was just as worried for her.

"I will look after her, father." Robb assured him.

He squeezed his shoulder. "You've grown, Robb." He then pulled him into a fatherly embrace that Robb returned. "I'm proud of the man you've become."

"Thank you," being in his father's arms it all hit Robb with a bludgeoning force. His father was riding to the south with Sansa, and Domeric. Jon was going north to take the Black. Even Arya was leaving, going to Bear Island to foster with the Mormonts. Everything was changing and it scared Robb upon realizing how different everything was about to be.

When they pulled away, Robb could see sadness creeping into his father's expression as his eyes roamed across his study. He too seemed to be reflecting about his pending departure and the home and family he was leaving behind.

"Father," Robb broke him from his peaceful reflections. He didn't want to, but he needed to bring it up before he left.

"Yes?" His grey eyes turned to look down at him.

"You have to talk to Jon," Robb blurted out a lot less eloquently then he had planned.

His father's expression became guarded. "He has decided to take the Black."

"But he can't!" Robb protested, before he could collect his thoughts and present them in a far more mature manner. That was what he had practiced when he imagined this conversation, but he couldn't keep his emotions in check as he thought about his brother going to the Wall.

"Many Starks have taken the Black, Robb," his father told him sternly. "It is a noble calling to protect the realms from what lies beyond the Wall."

"I know," Robb relented, knowing Uncle Benjen had taken the Black, but Robb couldn't let it go. He couldn't let his brother go. He didn't want that life for his brother. It didn't feel right. It didn't seem fair. His brother shouldn't have to leave Winterfell. It was his home too. "But Domeric made him an offer."

"I'm aware of Domeric's offer to Jon."

That had surprised Robb. "You are?"

"Yes," he nodded, "Domeric broached the subject with me and told me why he thought Jon was qualified for the position." His father scratched his chin, "I gave him my blessing to ask Jon, but Jon refused. He will take the Black."

"Jon is just being stubborn," Robb complained. "He should take Domeric's offer. And if he doesn't like it then he can take the Black. I-I just don't want Jon to leave. Not now," he felt wetness in his eyes, "not with Bran and everything else. I need him with me. He's my brother and…"

"It is never easy to say goodbye, son." He said "but sometimes the only way we can grow is by taking your own path." His father placed his hand on Robb's shoulder once more. "That's what Jon's doing. That's what Domeric and Sansa are doing and Arya and that's what you'll be doing too."

"I understand," Robb took a shaky breath to compose himself. Learning just how difficult this lesson was going to be.

"You are a good brother to Jon," his father assured him. "Do not feel guilty for Jon's choices. Jon knows that he will always be welcomed here. He knows we will always consider him family."

Robb couldn't quite meet his father's eyes. His observations had struck true to some of Robb's hesitance at Jon leaving. In some part he felt guilty that Jon thought he had to leave. It bothered him to think that he was somehow responsible in driving Jon away from home.

"Thank you," Robb found some relief in his father's words. He still wasn't happy with his brother's decision, but he knew that he needed to support Jon in this. He was his brother. He would just do it in a way that made it clear that Jon could always come back before he took his vows.

Satisfied, his father removed his hand from Robb's shoulder, "One more thing," he told him, "Do not forget to write to the Princess."

Robb groaned.

In his panic at everything that was changing for him and at Winterfell, Robb had forgotten his betrothal with the princess. He had been so focused on trying to deter Jon, Bran's fall, and the pending departures of his father, Sansa, and Domeric that his betrothal to the young princess had escaped him. At its reminder it now reemerged, hovering over him like a storm cloud. Bringing with it new fears and concerns that Robb was too tired and to emotionally drained to deal with presently.

His father chuckled. "Now Robb, do not overlook the importance of getting to know your future wife." He told him, "These letters can be the foundation of a friendship that you will both cherish and depend on when it comes time for you two to be wed."

"I'll write to her, father."

"That's my son," He smiled down at him, a hint of pride in his tone and expression.

\-------------------------

"I hope you enjoyed your time here, my lady."

Robb was escorting the Princess, Myrcella Baratheon, his betrothed, to the wheelhouse she shared with her mother and siblings.

"I did, Robb," she smiled shyly up at him.

His was more hesitant since he was aware of the scowling Ser Jaime Lannister who walked behind them. As a member of the prestigious Kingsguard, a famed swordsman, and Myrcella's uncle, Robb understood the scrutiny he was currently under.

Robb's time with the princess had been short and awkward. She was a year younger then Sansa, but even still she was quite cute. She took after the Queen in appearance, blond curls that fell over her shoulders, green eyes, but unlike the Queen, the princess smiled easily and giggled almost endlessly.

In the beginning of their time together it had proven difficult for Robb to get to know the young lady who would one day be his wife. She was shy, but Robb was slowly able to coax her out of her shell and to his surprise discovered a polite, smart, and witty girl. She told countless good stories and funny jokes. Though she openly admitted most of both were borrowed from her beloved uncle, Tyrion.

Upon getting to know her, Robb found his nervousness dwindle at the thought of one day marrying her. An option that when first announced had made him more resigned then anything. They still had a ways to go before truer feelings could emerge, but with her departure Robb felt more confident that this betrothal could end up being a good and happy thing for both of them.

"I pray for safe travels on your trip," He inwardly cringed at his words, fearing how stupid they sounded. He was certain he heard a snort from her uncle, Ser Jaime.

"Thank you," she replied courteously despite her uncle's response.

They were nearing her wheelhouse. She turned back to Winterfell with the castle looming over them. "I must say I enjoyed the castle and the company more than I thought I would."

"You are too kind, my lady," Robb dipped his head to her.

"I look forward to the day when I return so that I can better understand the North and its people."

"The North will be blessed by your presence," Robb complimented, unsure if it sounded as good out loud as it did in his head.

Thankfully, it seemed it was the latter because he was rewarded with another one of her shy smiles. That soon disappeared as she chewed on her lower lip, "I will pray to the Mother every day for Bran."

Robb had been taken aback by both her words and the sincerity in which she spoke with. He could see the genuineness shimmer in her emerald eyes. "Thank you," He found his throat suddenly dry.

She nodded, realizing his discomfort.

"Allow me," Robb spoke up when they arrived at the wheelhouse. He had beaten her uncle to the door, opening it for the princess. "You will have letters from me waiting for you when you reach the capital."

"Then I pray that we travel with haste," she replied politely.

Robb took her hand and placed a gentle kiss upon the back of it. He didn't dare due anything else in front of her uncle, Ser Jaime. Robb then held her hand and helped her climb into the wheelhouse where he was greeted by a grin from her younger brother Tommen, and an icy stare from her mother.

He offered the Queen a slight bow and a smile before returning his attention to Myrcella where they exchanged goodbyes once again before Ser Jaime stepped in to excuse them since he needed a word with his sister, the Queen.

It wasn't until he was alone and away from the wheelhouse did Robb notice all the people and all the noise that filled the yard. It was enough to drown yourself in. Men were shouting, servants were moving, things were being loaded, but most of them were strangers to Robb. His eyes were moving through the crowd of unfamiliar faces. Thankfully, they parted when he passed.

He quickly spotted the banners of House Bolton flapping in the breeze. The men of the Dreadfort had put some distance between them from the royal party and the Lannisters. They were dressed in simple mail unlike the more elaborate and colorful armor that the knights and soldiers from the south were wearing.

That was where Robb went. Moving closer, he spotted his sister off to the side tending to Shadow while Lady remained close. Shadow seemed to be the only horse who was not spooked by the direwolf's presence. That didn't come as a surprise to Robb since he knew the destrier was all but bonded to Domeric. So the horse felt no fear in the direwolf's presence because it sensed a close kinship with Lady.

"I thought you'd be with the princess all morning," Sansa feigned a lofty sigh, "And forget all about your sweet sister."

Robb sent an annoyed look at his sister who only giggled. "The thought has become more tempting now."

"I think it's sweet," Sansa proclaimed, "You two could be very happy together."

For all the changing and maturing Robb had seen of his sister these past few months. He was still pleased to note her strongest trait was still her compassion and her hope in seeing others happy.

"You know I could never forget about you, sister," Robb declared.

"How could anyone?" Domeric joined them. He put his arm around Sansa, who rewarded his compliment with a kiss to his cheek.

Robb smiled at the obvious happiness the two had and the affection they shared for one another. Not for the first time since his betrothal with the Princess was announced did he wonder and hope to find what they shared one day for him with Myrcella. 

They both meant so much to him. It hurt him to see them preparing for their journey to the capital. He remembered his father's wise words and the paths we must take. Though, for Robb his didn't seem more of a path then staying in place while he watched those he cared about continue on without him.

"You two did look happy this morning." Domeric observed softly.

Robb turned to his friend to see no hint of teasing in his expression. He knew his friend and sister were only looking out for him. They had come to him after the betrothal was announced to offer their support and to congratulate him with the underlying message that they were there if he needed to vent his feelings on what had happened.

Happy? He had been more nervous and perhaps a bit relieved when he parted with her at the wheelhouse. Robb was certain she had similar feelings. It might come later, but it wasn't there yet. Robb had only just met her and already she was leaving to return to her home in the capital. When they'd be reunited he didn't know only that they'd still be strangers once more sharing a burden of a future together.

"She is pleasant company," Robb offered, knowing he had been quiet during his reflections. That seemed to satisfy them. He saw a pleased smile on his sister's face while Domeric was more reserved in his expression, but his brown eyes showed his approval.

However, at the moment, he didn't want to dwell on the princess. He wanted to spend what time he had with his family and friends without distractions.

"Have you said your goodbyes to Jon?" Robb had yet to say his. He knew his brother was in the castle right now giving his goodbyes to Arya and Bran. He knew Jon would seek him out afterwards. Robb was anxious for it. He had been dreading it as much as the one's he was about to give to Sansa and Domeric.

Robb didn't fault Jon for wanting to join. It was a noble goal, but Robb thought his brother too young to make such a life altering choice. Why couldn't Jon go in a few years? Let him see what the world is like and what he would be missing before deciding if the Watch and the Wall was where he wanted to be.

"We have," Sansa's affirmation broke through Robb's musings. Though distracted he did notice the look that passed between his sister and Domeric at the mention of Jon. 

Looking at his younger sister, he was taken aback at the mature young woman who was meeting his stare. He could remember the countless times when he was sick or tired or hurt and she'd come to his room, sit beside him, tend to him, sing to him. She was his younger sister, but she took care of him. She always tried to make him feel better.

Robb would miss her terribly. He moved towards her without words and held her tightly. He could feel her soft sniffing against his doublet. He could feel tears prickling the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away.

When their embrace ended, he looked to see his sister's eyes, the blue Tully eyes that they inherited from their mother were wet with tears.

"Promise me you'll write?"

"I promise," he assured her. His words placated her as she gave him a shaky nod. She moved to hug him again, this one was briefer but it was just as emotional.

Robb then moved his attention to Domeric, the Heir to the Dreadfort who had come to Winterfell two years ago as a stranger and was now leaving a brother to Robb. The two then embraced as brothers, slapping each other's back before pulling away.

"You look after her," Robb said thickly.

"Aye," Domeric agreed turning to Sansa, whose eyes still shimmered with wetness, "But I'll likely need it more."

She gave her betrothed a watery smile. She turned back to Robb. "Bran and Rickon will need you, Robb."

"I know," Robb nodded, "Bran will survive this and when he does, I'll be there for him."

"Good," Sansa sounded relieved. She always looked out for them. It was in her nature.

"We should finish preparing," Domeric said awkwardly after a few heartbeats of peaceful silence had fallen over the three of them. His expression clearly conveying that he wished it wasn't the case.

Robb knew he spoke truly. He moved to shake his friend's hand before hugging his sister once more before Domeric and Sansa went back towards the Bolton party. He watched them go and was rewarded when they turned back and gave him a wave which he returned. He then moved to turn his back on them to discover that the chaos and noise had only intensified. Looking around, he knew what he needed to do.

This was his time.

He took a deep breath and began shouting orders, his voice carrying over the others. He tried to do it the same way he saw his father do it countless times before him. Surprised, and pleased when he noticed his words were taking hold with the servants and the guards as they went about following his commands.

It wasn't going to be easy, Robb knew, but he was ready to move forward.


	14. Sansa

Finally, Sansa thought, distancing herself from the Queen's ornate wheelhouse with each step.

Sansa felt equal parts relief and excitement when the wheels had rumbled to a bumpy halt. She was tired of being cooped upside the bouncing, uncomfortable, and hot ornate wheelhouse which felt more like a prison to Sansa with the Queen serving as her jailor.

Looking forward, she saw the reason why the day's march came to an earlier end than usual. A three-story high inn stood before her. It was the largest Sansa had seen. Made from pale stone, it sprawled and stretched out before her. Even as she marveled at is size, she couldn't help but wonder if it would be able to hold the king's party. Said party had grown to well over four hundred when her father had accepted the position as Hand, having taken his household with them for the journey.

Sansa was restless.

A feeling she couldn't shake since she found herself departing Winterfell all those days ago. She did her best not to show it. She remained civil and never voiced her frustrations or her displeasure at how long their journey was taking or that she had to spend most of her traveling days in the Queen's company.

It's not her company I wish to be in, Sansa thought of her betrothed, Domeric, seeing glimpses of him riding atop his horse, Lady usually trailing behind him since her direwolf wasn't permitted either in or near the wheelhouse. The Queen's decision, and Sansa had her suspicions it was done more to hurt or alienate her then it was to protect Cersei's children, the latter being the reason she claimed when making such demands.

At first, Sansa had refused. Insisting, if she could not have Lady with her then she would simply not attend to the Queen. An opinion that scandalized Septa Mordane, confused Jeyne, made Domeric smile, and brought out a tired chuckle from her father. Who then gently told her that she couldn't ignore the Queen and would have to abide by her decision.

That had been before the first day Sansa had found herself riding with the Queen, and sadly for her, several more had since followed.

"What troubles you, my lady?"

Sansa didn't stop the smile that came to her lips, an instinctive reaction whenever she heard the warm, friendly voice of her betrothed. She turned to see him smiling at her. He moved to meet her, kissing her hand when she gave it and then a chaste kiss on her lips that had her heart fluttering.

Lady joined them seconds later, panting heavily, having clearly been enjoying herself running through the woods, paws coated with mud, while flecks of dirt covered her underside. Her direwolf came to her, tail wagging and Sansa bent down to greet her, hugging her around the neck, uncaring of the potential grime and smudges that she may get on her dress from embracing her direwolf.

"Lord Stark gave us permission to stroll across the grounds before supper," Domeric said. "I thought you might like some time away from everything."

"That sounds wonderful," Sansa rose to her feet, silently thankful at her betrothed's thoughtful consideration for her.

"Then it's settled," Domeric looked pleased that she had approved of his suggestion. His eyes then shifted to over his shoulder where two Bolton men-at-arms appeared, their chaperones. Domeric gave them a nod before turning back to her, "Shall we be off?"

"Yes," Sansa couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice at the idea of getting away from it all even if it's only briefly.

He chuckled, before leading Sansa away from the noisy and bustling royal party and towards the quiet, secluded woods. "What's troubling you?" He repeated his earlier question to her reminding her that it remained unanswered.

"That I must spend time with the Queen," Sansa answered honestly, when she knew they were out of reach of eavesdroppers, "While you get to ride in better company."

Domeric laughed at this. "I assure you my lady, I'm with no better company then when I'm with you."

"You think your sweet words can save you from my frustration?" Sansa teased.

"Of course not, my lady," he brought his other hand to gently pat hers which was resting on his arm. "However, let us not ruin this day by speaking of such foul things as certain lions."

Sansa giggled, unable to deny the happiness that filled her whenever she could spend time with her betrothed.

The few times when she was with him, he was her balm. Domeric saw through her polite façade to see the frustrations she was feeling. Sansa was appreciative of his ability to listen and how he remained quiet when she talked. It was not necessarily the encouragement he gave when she finished that she cherished, but his attentiveness.

"I heard of rumors that the King wants to throw a tournament to honor father being named his Hand." Sansa had never been to a tournament. She couldn't deny she was interested in wanting to attend this one. She wanted to see the pageantry and the events. Curious with how it would compare to the ones she heard so much of in her stories or the ones that were often held in the south.

"Aye," Domeric had led them to the banks of the Trident.

"Will you enter the lists?" Sansa couldn't silence her curiosity. She had seen him ride countless times and believed he could handle himself with any challenger the south could throw at him. She had heard her father say he rode like the wind, and that his prowess on a horse would make him an equal to any southern knight.

"I'm not sure," he admitted, "Lord Redfort always encouraged me that I could do well in them…" He trailed off, looking awkward, "I-I'm not sure how I'd fare to be honest."

"You'd be brilliant!" Sansa said before she could stop herself. She saw the affect her words had on him as he turned to her, his mouth slightly agape at her praise. She couldn't stop from giggling before placing her finger on his chin to close his mouth. The move snapped him out of his shock.

"You are too kind, my lady," he deflected. "I will think on it." His expressive brown eyes remained on her. "If I join it will only be with your blessing and your favor."

She smiled, feeling her heart fluttering within her chest upon seeing the look of adoration that shone in his eyes for her. She had often dreamed for a man to look at her like that, wondering how it would feel to be the center of such gaze.

"You will have both." She kissed his cheek and he returned her smile. A smile that became mischievous when he hesitantly pulled his arm away from her hand and moved closer to the banks of the Trident. "What are you doing?"

He was pulling his boots off and then his socks, one by one. "Did you know this is where the King won his crown?" He tucked his discarded socks into his boots and moved to the edge of the river. "Where he smashed Rhaegar and where the rubies from the Crown Prince's armor scattered into the water."

"You don't honestly think to find rubies?" She shook her head in dismay.

He laughed, "Of course not." He stepped in. "But the water is nice and cold."

Sansa moved closer to the banks of the river. Lady followed behind.

He moved deeper, the water was up to his knees. "Will you join me?"

Sansa slipped out of her shoes. She looked to see he was waiting for her with his hand out.

She didn't hesitate.

Sansa stepped into the river where she was greeted with chilly water. Her toes sunk into the muddy ground of the river as she carefully took a few steps. She felt smooth stones against the bottom of her feet.

"I have you," Domeric assured her, gently grabbing onto her hand while his other hand went to her waist to steady her so that she would not fall. They were wading in the river. The swirling water rushing around them, but they remained where the current was still calm. Beyond them were rushing rapids that frothed and swirled and were strong enough to suck in any stalwart beast or foolish man.

She let out a contented sigh, appreciative of the cool water that lapped her legs. "This is nice."

Her declaration got a smile out of Domeric who looked pleased that she was enjoying herself. She noticed his hands remained, one clasped around hers and the other on her waist. She didn't mind, the closeness between them.

She closed her eyes, finding the sounds of the rushing water soothing and relaxing, washing away her frustrations from the journey.

After a few heartbeats of quiet bliss between them, Sansa found herself swaying slightly, body instinctively moving trying to keep in rhythm of the river. Humming softly, as she moved, Domeric followed, his movement mirroring hers.

We're dancing, a swell of warmth filled her chest at the intimacy she was sharing with him, savoring the closeness and the touches shared between her and Domeric. To others who may pass by to see them, they must've looked odd or foolish, dancing in a river without music or sound to guide them, but not to her.

To Sansa it was perfect.

She nuzzled her head to his chest as they continued to enjoy their quiet dance. "Thank you." She felt his lips press a kiss into her hair and when he spoke, Sansa could feel the vibrations within his chest with each word.

"Anything for you, my lady."

\----------------------------------

Lady was restless.

She had been ever since they neared the capital. She was agitated. The noises, the smells, the people, Lady didn't seem to care for any of it. Even now in their room, Lady had not settled down. She paced furiously; her hackles were up, eyes constantly moving around the room.

"I don't think Lady likes it here."

"I don't think anyone likes it here."

Sansa had to admit Dom had a point. She had been disappointed and underwhelmed by the city. It was hot and smelled foul. There were some impressive sights to behold within the capital, but most of it did not match the images her imagination had conjured from the stories she was told growing up.

"Lady," Dom strummed a few strings from his harp to bring a soothing sound into the room.

The direwolf turned to him. She padded over towards where he was lounging on a sofa by the open window. Dom rewarded her by continuing to pluck at his harp eliciting sweet music that seemed to calm Lady's nerves. She curled up by his feet.

Sansa smiled at the scene that had unfolded before her. She then moved to join them. She took up a spot beside Domeric on the couch, cozying up to him. He moved to wrap his arm around her. She nestled her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes, and humming softly while he continued to play.

She didn't know how tired she was until she found herself in his arms. Sansa had been helping to oversee a smooth transition of the Stark household settling into the Tower of the Hand. Her father had left almost immediately upon arriving to the Keep to attend a Small Council meeting. Sansa had taken it upon herself to make sure the household was established within the Tower as to ease the burden off of her father.

"The Queen invited me to tea tomorrow," Sansa's eyes remained closed. The invitation had come from one of the Queen's handmaidens while she had been overseeing the unpacking.

Domeric squeezed her shoulder. He gave her no words.

She expected this response. He had warned her that the King's Landing had many spies, and that even in the Red Keep, there would be eyes and ears snooping and listening to all their conversations. Only their thoughts were safe from being stolen.

They needed to be careful with what they said even in the privacy of their rooms or anywhere within the Tower of the Hand. That was what Sansa disliked the most. She cherished her time talking with Domeric and to think of those precious, private conversations being listened in on by strangers made her sick and angry.

Not for the first time did she wish she was back home at Winterfell with Robb, Arya, Jon, and Bran. She could be helping mother tend to Bran. Sansa wanted to be there when her brother woke up. So she could try to keep his spirits up. She wanted to be able to go to the Godswood with Domeric where they often went for peace and privacy.

She missed it all. She missed them all.

Sansa sighed.

As if knowing what she was feeling and thinking Domeric kissed the top of her head to comfort her.

She couldn't help but smile at his intimate response. Sansa stirred in his arms. She knew that if her Septa came across them, they'd be in for an earful of scolding and warnings, but in this moment, Sansa didn't find it in herself to care. She didn't mind that this wasn't seen as proper.

To Sansa she thought nothing could be more proper. She was in the arms of the man who would one day be her husband. What they felt for one another was genuine. To hide it or to pretend it didn't exist between them was the improper thing to do, Sansa thought. The feelings of affection that had her heart singing in these quiet moments were a stronger argument then any lecture the Septa could give to them.

She could get use to this: being in Domeric's arms. His hold was gentle, but strong. Her head nestled against his chest, his pulse a soothing beat that calmed her thoughts. One of his hands was twirling a strand of her hair, while the other smoothly rubbed her shoulder.

A knock came to Sansa's closed door that broke through her thoughts and their peaceful moment. She frowned. Hesitantly, sitting up, finding herself cold now that she wasn't in his arms.

Lady moved to her feet. Hackles raised, growling low as her eyes were fixed on the closed door.

"Who is it?" Sansa called.

"Ser Arys Oakheart," came the polished voice from behind the door, "With the Princess, Myrcella Baratheon."

Sansa got to her feet at once. Her hand going through her curls before smoothing out her dress to make sure she looked presentable to the Princess. She was nearly at the door when she looked over her shoulder to see Domeric too had gotten up. Stretching, he had moved quickly take a seat at the small table by the open window to try to be in a more innocent, less compromising position. He had drunken a large measure of the lemon water to help present the illusion that he had been sitting there for a while.

Satisfied, that they didn't look guilty of anything; Not that they were, she thought. She opened the door to see Ser Arys Oakheart. He stood tall, dressed in his white-enameled scales, his equally white cloak was pinned by a golden leaf, a tribute to his house.

"Lady Sansa," He dipped his head.

"Ser Arys," she returned the greeting with a polite smile before her eyes moved towards the quiet princess. Sansa was quick to drop to a curtsey. "Princess Myrcella."

"My mother isn't here, Sansa," Myrcella smiled. "So please no bowing." Her green eyes looked past Sansa, and her smile turned mischievous, "I didn't know you had company."

Sansa willed herself not to blush at the princess' mischievous smile and insinuation. Though, she wasn't sure if she was successful or not. She was spared the need of a defense as Domeric arrived to her side.

"Princess," He offered the princess an eloquent bow. "I was helping the Lady Sansa to unpack."

Lady too had moved towards the visitor; sniffing the air, before coming to stop in front of the Princess. Arys tensed in his spot. He had gone up with the royal party to Winterfell and had been in the presence of the other direwolves, but it was clear he was still wary of them. Lady put his mind at ease when she tilted head to the side in greeting before licking the princess' outstretched hand.

Myrcella giggled. She then patted the direwolf affectionately. "I was hoping to give you a tour of the Godswood." She revealed, "To show you one of the nicer parts of the Red Keep."

"That would be wonderful," Sansa accepted the invitation without hesitation. She could enjoy some time outside of the Tower. She turned to Domeric who looked agreeable to the plan.

Myrcella looked pleased. "Then let's be off."

Domeric stepped forward to offer Sansa his arm which she took with a smile. Myrcella led them forward with Ser Arys and Lady walking behind them, the two protectors making for quite a sight.

\-------------

The Godswood of the Red Keep was nothing like the one in Winterfell. There it was three acres that mostly consisted of sentinels, oaks, and ironwoods, untouched for thousands of years. Trees so large and old their branches stretched out towards the sky and all but smothered any sunlight that tried to slip through. It was a dark, primal place that was hauntingly beautiful and radiated a sort of ken that was comforting to those familiar with the old gods and unsettling to those who were not.

This Godswood was smaller and younger, an acre of elm, alder, and black cottonwood trees that allowed for plenty of sunlight to stream through. It had stone paths that strewn through welcoming guests to stroll its pathways or rest on benches and tables that took in the Blackwater Rush. It was bright and bustling, a complete contrast to Winterfell's.

Sansa was disappointed to discover that the heart tree was a great oak covered in smokeberry vines. There was no weirwood tree. The old gods could not see or protect them from here. That unsettled her more then she thought it ever would.

She was pulled from her reflections at the sound of voices, blinking to see their small party had been approached by two well dressed men. Sansa had recognized one of them immediately as Lord Renly, Robert's youngest brother, Lord of Storm's End, and Master of Laws on his brother's small council. She had met him on the road to the capital, as well as the famous Ser Barristan.

It was the other man that Sansa didn't recognize. Dressed in green finery with golden trimming, golden roses were sewn onto his doublet. He was handsome, she thought casually. But she felt no stir in her heart or heat to her face when his golden eyes met hers. He bowed his head when their eyes met his long brown hair tussled at the movement.

"Lady Sansa," Lord Renly greeted her with a smile that she was quick to note didn't seem entirely genuine.

A smile, she had come to realize in the south was a most useful mask for the people at Court. It was a way to disarm you and for you to believe that they could be a confidant, a friend, an ally. She could play that game too. She knew her etiquette and her curtseys. When to smile and when to look meek; to them, they'd think her a naïve northern girl that would be their mistake.

"Lord Renly," she curtseyed on cue. Allowing him to take her hand and press a soft kiss to her knuckles. She watched a cordial greeting between Domeric and Renly, before she turned her attention to the stranger with him, "And who is your companion?"

"Forgive my rudeness," Renly apologized, "This is Ser Loras Tyrell," he introduced, "son of Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden."

"A pleasure," his eyes on her, "I must say they didn't do your beauty justice."

She smiled at the compliment. That was what he'd expect for his flattering words. Sansa knew who the they that he was referring to was-the court. "You're too kind, Ser Loras," Going into a curtsey for the son of the Warden of the South.

Like with Lord Renly, he kissed the back of her hand. "The court is blessed to be graced with such beauty."

"You flatter me," she could practically imagine Domeric rolling his eyes from beside her. Thankfully, she knew her betrothed was too restrained to make such an expression so openly. She also knew him well enough to know he would be more amused than annoyed at Loras' words.

"Ser Loras," Domeric stepped forward to meet him.

Loras looked him over with an inquisitive appraisal, his eyes resting on the Bolton brooch that clasped his cloak. "Lord Bolton," His lips curved into a smile.

Sansa didn't like that look one bit. The smirk, the condescending glance as his eyes fell on the Bolton sigil. She felt a surge of protectiveness swell in her tummy like a rising flame. She tempered it quickly enough, knowing that his reaction was to be expected.

"So Uncle Renly is the tournament official?" The princess was practically brimming with anticipation.

Renly sent his niece a warm smile. "It is. The preparations have already started."

Myrcella responded to the news with a bright smile. "I must have a new dress for the tournament," she rambled, eyes gleaming as she looked to be considering what sort of dress she should wear, she then turned to Sansa, "Have you ever been to a tournament?"

"No," Sansa was caught off guard by the princess' enthusiasm for them.

"We don't really have much need of them in the north," Domeric added, honest and blunt.

"Oh, but they're wonderful!" Myrcella seemed surprised of her and Domeric having never attended one. "The pageantry, the knights, the jousting, the crowds," the princess continued to gush for her adoration of the festivities.

It was in this light that Sansa saw a different side of the Princess. Revealing her southern roots, that may not take told hold in the north. Where tournaments were not held, and knights were sparse in the great northern expanse. She hoped Myrcella understood this. She seemed bright and knowledgeable of her future home when they talked during the travel to the capital.

Yet, seeing the princess like this brought with it a sense of concern in Sansa. Did Myrcella expect the same lavish southern styles when she married her brother and became Lady of Winterfell? Sansa's family was not one to spend frivolously. For the longest time, Sansa thought it was a flaw in her family, but now she understood the strength and wisdom in restraint and considered it a great quality to have, especially as she saw the extravagance of the southern families.

Sansa made a note to bring this up with the princess. Hoping to temper her expectations and prepare her for the reality that she'd attend few if any tournaments when she became the Lady of Winterfell.

"Will you be riding in the tournament, Uncle?" Myrcella asked, excitement punctuated her every word.

"I plan to, and if I win I will crown you my Queen of love and beauty," he declared.

Myrcella beamed and blushed at this. Her eyes went distant as if imaging the spectacle of her Uncle winning and then crowning her. "Oh thank you, Uncle!" She kissed his cheek.

"What of you, Ser Loras?" Sansa asked politely, noticing the shy look that the princess sent towards

"Of course he will," Myrcella answered with such emphatic confidence the question could well have been: would the sun rise tomorrow? "They call him the Knight of Flowers."

Sansa was certain she heard a snort from Domeric at the mention of the name. Thankfully, the others didn't seem to notice, he and Renly were still focusing on the Princess, who continued in her praise of the knight. "He's won many tournaments throughout the south."

"You sound quite accomplished, Ser Loras," Sansa's tone conveyed more sincerity then she felt. She also couldn't help but notice the high esteem, that the princess had for him.

Something else, Sansa made a note to herself, to bring up with the princess. The last thing she wanted for her brother was for him to marry a woman who loved someone else.

"As a third son, I've had to make my own way," He deflected her praise with a smile that didn't quite belay his pride at his skill. His eyes then moved towards Domeric, "I suppose we won't see you out there, Bolton." His tone became dismissive, "These sorts of tournaments are no place for amateurs."

Sansa put her hand on Domeric's arm. Her eyes remained on the Knight of Flowers, her opinion of the southern knight deteriorating at his boorish manners and haughty attitude. She wondered if it was some sort of prerequisite for the young men of the south, to be rude and arrogant. In front of her, she didn't see a handsome knight, but a spoiled man.

"Indeed, these tournaments seem a bit too amateurish for my tastes," Domeric remarked casually, almost sounding bored and dismissive of Loras' presumed insults. "Maybe it's the north in me, but when I draw my sword it isn't for the praise of a fickle crowd, but the roar of battle."

His tone had become as hard and cold as the northern weather they left behind, "and my sword isn't a tool to entertain, but as a weapon to kill."

Sansa squeezed her betrothed's arm, reminding him that she was with him. She was always with him. She wanted to both chide and praise him for how he stood up to the knight of flowers. She nearly smiled, feeling both proud and satisfied with how her betrothed's words had taken hold of the southern knight.

His flushed face and confusion transformed into outrage, his face darkened, mouth moving, but he was fumbling for any sort of coherent response. It never came as Renly's laughter cut through the tense moment. The Lord of Storm's End's sudden laughter surprised and confused everyone.

"I can see why my brother always spoke so fondly of Lord Stark and his northern bannermen," Renly remarked when he stopped laughing. "You're unrelenting bluntness," he then clapped his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Come Loras we must return to the tiltyard to practice." He used his hand to steer Loras away, "I promised my niece a crown! And I'm afraid I must raise my skill in order to accomplish such a feat."

"I'd like to come to," Myrcella moved to follow, taking several steps in their direction before turning to stop. As if just remembering Sansa and Domeric were still there, "Do you want to come?"

"Thank you for the invitation, but we'll have to pass," Sansa declined smoothly, patting Domeric's arm as her hand remained on top of his. "My father is expecting us back at the Tower for supper."

Myrcella didn't seem too disappointed that they wouldn't be joining. With a wave and a promise to talk to her again, the Princess went with her uncle and Ser Loras with the silent Ser Aerys following close behind.

"Others take him," Domeric muttered darkly.

"I fear that won't be the last spoiled southerner we deal with in the capital," Sansa observed lightly, before kissing his cheek.

"No, I suppose not," he admitted reluctantly.

"Will you participate?" Sansa hadn't ignored what he had said about the tournament, but she knew that was more of a response to Loras' insults and less about his own opinion on them.

"I will, my father has already expressed his desire to have me participate," Domeric shrugged, "A way to further enhance our family's name."

"What about you?" Sansa didn't like how it seemed to always go back to Lord Bolton and Domeric's attempts at trying to meet his father's expectations. Even in the capital the shadow of Lord Bolton loomed over his son and heir. "What would you like to do?"

"What I'd like?" He frowned as if caught off guard by the question. His lips then tugged upwards into a smile while his brown eyes turned to her. "I'd very much like to crown you my Queen of Love and Beauty."


	15. Arya

Winterfell was all she knew.

Now, looking around her home it never felt so empty. So many familiar faces were gone.

When father had left for the south he had taken much of the household of Winterfell with him including Vayon Poole, the steward, Jory Cassel, who served as captain of the household guard, Septa Mordane, and Hullen, the master of horse.

It was not just the loss of servants and guards that weighed on her mind, but those of her family that had departed. Her father had gone to the capital with Sansa, and Domeric. Mother too had left soon afterwards to deliver new information to father at the capital. 

She missed them all terribly.

However, the one that hurt the most was Jon. He had left to go to the Wall and to take the Black.

Why did he have to be stupid? Why did he have to be so stubborn!

He could've stayed. He didn't have to go so far away.

She blinked away tears.

Wanting a distraction, she went to where she kept Needle. It was one of the few things she had yet to pack. The sword had been a gift from Jon before he left. When she closed her eyes she could still see his smiling face when he gave her some encouraging words on how to use it.

She put it on top of her pile of clothes in the last remaining opened trunk.

The only good news they had since her family departed Winterfell had been that her brother, Bran had woken up. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember what had happened in the immediate events that led to how he fell.

She tried to visit him as often as she could. It was difficult for her though: to see him lying in bed, so thin and sad.

It wasn't fair!

Her brother didn't deserve this. They had often played their games in the training yard, chasing each other, and laughing.

Now, when she visited he was a shadow of his former self. He barely talked. His eyes were distant, his face sad, and his temper short. On more than one occasion they had gotten into a heated argument.

They never use to fight, she sniffed at the change between them, but now it seemed all they did was argue.

He wasn't the only one who had changed. Robb too had transformed in the past week since father and the others left Winterfell. He carried real steel now. He rarely smiled or laughed. He had his lord face almost always on. That's what Bran called it, and Arya couldn't agree more.

"Are you ready, Nymeria?" Arya turned to her direwolf.

Nymeria flicked her golden eyes at Arya, tongue lulling to the side. Arya knew that she had been out with her littermates from the flecks of dirt that coated her paws and fur. 

Her direwolf never had a chance to answer since at the moment, a knock came to her door, followed by her brother's voice, "Arya?"

"Come in."

Robb did. His sword dangled from its sheath by his side. His face solemn, but his eyes looked at her with a softness she had rarely seen since father left. "I've received word from the Mormonts' party."

Arya stayed silent.

"They'll be here by nightfall," he told her. "They will be here just long enough for some rest and fresh supplies before you all set out for Bear Island."

In that moment, Arya got up from her seat and ran to her brother, overwhelmed by so many different emotions. He picked her up and held her close. She could feel tears leaking out, but she only buried her head deeper into her brother's shoulder.

It had hit her all so suddenly. She was leaving.

"There, there," Robb whispered in her ear, rocking her in his arms before slowly putting her back down. "You're going to have a lot of fun." Her feet touched the floor. "I'm quite jealous actually."

"You are?" Arya rubbed at her eyes to see her brother wasn't wearing his lord's face.

"I am," he affirmed. "The Mormonts are ferocious fighters." He rested his hand on her shoulder. "Our family should be honored to count them as one of our most loyal bannermen."

"What about you?" she sniffed. She hated leaving him here, and Bran and Rickon. She couldn't stamp out the guilt that she was abandoning them by going off to Bear Island and leaving them behind.

"I'll be alright," he soothed her concern. "And I'll write to you every day to complain about Theon."

She laughed. "You promise?"

"Yes," He brought his hand to her cheeks to gently wipe away the lingering tears she had missed. "You'll write to me too?"

"Yes," she realized she would be writing many letters that would be traveling across Westeros: Her letters to Jon on the Wall, to Sansa and Domeric in the capital, and now to Robb and Bran in Winterfell.

Robb smiled, "Good, because I want to hear all about your adventures in Bear Island." He guided her over to where her opened trunk was. "I want to know what style of fighting Dacey is training you in so that I can prepare for next time we meet."

"You'll spar with me?" She brightened at that.

"Only if you promise to go easy on me."

"I'll try to," she promised.

Robb laughed. "That's my sister," his face sobered. "My sweet, mischievous sister," he shook his head, "Oh I will miss you terribly."

He wrapped his arms around her in another hug which Arya didn't fight. She returned the embrace with equal fervor. There were no tears this time. She was too tired for them. When they pulled away, she watched as his eyes settled on something behind her, before she could say or do anything he went to her trunk and pulled out Needle.

"It seems you've begun your lessons early," Robb said dryly. He made a few careful flicks with it, before his eyes fell on the mark. "This is from Mikken." His eyes went to hers. "Who gave you this?"

"Jon," she looked down at her shoes. She wasn't sure what to expect from her brother at the news that Jon had given her a sword. She knew he wouldn't have reacted like father would've, but she didn't expect the chuckle that came out of him.

"He dotes on you," Robb was smiling, "As well he should."

Arya returned his smile.

"Tell me, has Jon told you much about how to use one of these?"

"It's not a toy," Arya said seriously, pleased at the approving nod her brother sent her way, "And to stick them with the pointy end."

Robb snorted at that, "Yes, that sounds like Jon." He handed her the sword. "Be careful with this Arya."

"I will," Arya bit down the annoyance that threatened to seep into her tone. She had it for weeks without hurting her or anyone else.

Robb seemed to sense her annoyance. "It's not quite fair." His tone tinged in amusement. "Jon gets to give you a sword while I'm the one who has to lecture you on how to use it." He let out a dramatic sigh. "Jon's the fun brother, and I'm the nagging, responsible one." He sat on her bed.

"Don't worry you don't nag as well as Old Nan or Septa Mordane," Arya comforted him with a grin that had the two soon laughing.

"That's a relief," Robb declared when the laughter had subsided between them.

"Have you heard from mother or father?" Arya had settled herself next to him on the bed.

"No," he answered, "I've heard from Sansa."

"How is she?"

Robb sent her a curious look. "You miss her, don't you?"

Arya shot him a frown. "She's my sister of course I miss her!" 

It was a strange sort of declaration. She did miss Sansa. They had grown closer the few months before the king and his royal party arrived. Arya didn't like how she had to go south. She had only sent one letter to Sansa and Domeric, and was still working on a new one she wanted to send them. She had been hoping to have it done before she left for Bear Island. Now, that the Mormonts were near she wasn't sure if she'd finish in time.

Robb smiled. He looked proud at her words before he went back to answer her question.

"She and Domeric are well." He divulged the information of her latest letter. Most of it was boring, and made Arya thankful that she didn't have to go south. The only thing of interest had been of Domeric's intent to ride in the Tourney that was being thrown to honor Father's appointment as Hand of the King.

"Do you think Dom will win?" She hoped he'd wipe the floor with those spoiled, frilly southern knights. She met a few who had come to Winterfell with the king. They were unbearably smug and annoying.

"Aye," Robb seemed to be thinking similar thoughts. "Father and Ser Rodrik spoke well of his skills on horse and with lance." He turned to her, "I'm sure the next letter we'll get from them will be telling of how Domeric won and named Sansa, the Queen of Love and Beauty."

"Sansa would love that."

Robb gave her a look that conveyed he didn't need to be told the obvious.

She swatted his arm in protest, and he simply chuckled.

"What about mother?" Arya asked, "Did she find father?"

"That's not important, Arya." He had slipped on his lord's face

"What is it?" Arya knew he wasn't telling her something. She knew it when mother left so urgently after the fire in the library. It didn't make sense, and she knew mother had been talking to Robb, Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik, and even Theon often enough before she left. Arya didn't like how Theon knew and not her. His smirks had only become more annoying.

"I don't want to trouble you with the headaches of ruling."

Arya frowned, but seeing the tired look etched on her brother's face, quieted her protests. She didn't want to fight with him before she left for Bear Island. She didn't want one of her last times with her brother to be with Robb the lord instead of Robb, her brother.

She nodded, knowing she made the right decision when she saw relief come to his expression. "So how goes your correspondence with the princess?" She was unable to fight the grin that came to her when her brother rolled his eyes.

"You're worse than Sansa," He sighed.

Before any comparison to her sister would've made her angry; now, it only made her laugh especially seeing how her words had affected him. He looked annoyed, but the tired smile on his face showed he knew she was joking.

"I've just finished a letter for the princess," Robb admitted, and didn't look willing to divulge any further on the matter.

"Does it contain poetry?" Arya snickered.

Robb rolled his eyes, but before he could respond a new voice broke into the room.

"Robb?" Rickon's head poked inside the room, "You said you'd play with me."

"Aye," Robb looked thankful at the distraction of no longer needing to discuss his letters with the princess. "And what game shall we play?" He moved to scoop up Rickon in his arms.

"The one with the knight and the dragon," Rickon answered in between his bouts of giggling as he squirmed in Robb's arms.

Seeing her two brothers together, Arya felt a cold pang go through her; knowing that this would be one of her last times with them before she went to Bear Island. She felt the knots in her tummy realizing that she wouldn't be with her brothers and the rest of her family again for months, maybe even a year...

"Want to play, Arya?"

Rickon's words interrupted her anxious thoughts, she blinked to see his hopeful expression, Robb too was looking at her with an amused smile, an eyebrow raised in question.

Arya smiled at her youngest brother, "Only if I get to be the dragon!"

\---------

The day had finally come.

This was the day she left Winterfell.

It wasn't excitement that filled her at the journey she was about to embark on but anxiety. It felt like worms wiggling around in her tummy.

"Rickon, please," she pleaded for the umpteenth time as she stood outside his bedroom door. She found her patience wearing thin with him. She tried to keep her voice in check. Arya wanted to say goodbye to her brother, but she couldn't stand out here all day waiting for him.

The only response she got from him was a muffled sob as he refused to open the door for her to say goodbye. He was already upset that father, mother, Sansa, Jon, and even Dom had left. Watching her leave seemed to push him over the edge.

She didn't know how to handle his tantrum. She wasn't good at soothing him. It was always mother and Sansa who were able to calm him with a gentle touch or sweet words. Arya wasn't good at those things.

"I'm about to leave," she told him, "You're not going to see me for months." That admission brought an unexpected sniff from Arya. She was still trying to come to grips with leaving.

Her words seemed to have worked since she heard his door unlock. She saw a blur of her brother before he was on her, hugging her tight while his face buried into her shirt. She quickly put her arms around him to meet his emotional embrace.

"Don't leave," he mumbled into her shirt.

Arya didn't respond.

Realizing the delicate balance she had to maintain with her emotional, younger brother. She didn't want to push him away. She knew if she chose her words wrong that he would run back into his room in a fit. So instead, she just silently hugged him. She ignored the tears that were swelling in her eyes.

He looked up, red eyes, puffy cheeks stained with tears. Seeing how much her brother was reacting to her leaving had been surprising. Arya hadn't expected such a response from him. She loved Rickon and loved to play with him especially invoking his wild, playful side but because of his age she wasn't as close to him as she was with her other siblings.

She felt an uncomfortable lurch in her chest, a lump forming in her throat at the outpouring of affection that Rickon had for her. Arya tousled his hair the way she saw Sansa and mother do it a hundred times before which always seemed to elicit a giggle out of him. This time Rickon looked up, eyes brimming with tears, but his lips quivered before forming a small smile. He let out a shaky breath before finally dropping his arms to end the hug, a few sniffs followed as he scrubbed his eyes with the back of his arm.

Arya hesitantly pulled him in for one last hug which he didn't fight. She awkwardly patted his back. She inwardly chided herself at her inability to better comfort her youngest brother who was clearly hurting. She wasn't as affectionate as her mother or Sansa. Arya never had to be. They were always there to tend to Rickon when he needed them. Now, they were both gone and she was leaving too.

"I'll bring you back something from Bear Island," she promised unable to take the silence that lingered over them any longer.

That got his attention. His eyes wet with tears, but there was light in them at the promise of getting a gift, "Really?"

Arya couldn't help but smile at her brother's reaction.

"Really," she confirmed. She then did something she never did before with him. She bent down and gently, but quickly kissed the top of his head. She hoped it wasn't too clumsy or poorly done, but when she stood back up to see Rickon's bright smile, she knew she did the right thing.

\------------

Bran was staring up at the ceiling with a blank stare. His lips pressed in a firm line. He didn't look mad or annoyed. His attention seemed to be elsewhere.

There, Arya stood in the doorway. She didn't want to disturb him, but she was leaving shortly, and couldn't leave Winterfell without saying goodbye to Bran. What kept her from speaking was her uncertainty at how he would react to her leaving.

They had been fighting a lot and it was terrible. Arya didn't want her goodbye with Bran to end up in an argument. He meant too much for her to leave like that. If she was honest with herself, she found herself closest to Bran out of all of her other siblings outside of Jon. They weren't far apart in age. They use to always play with their wooden swords, running and chasing each other through the Godswood while they pretended to be famous legends from the Age of Heroes.

It was only till they were older when Arya was getting separated from Bran did she realize how much she missed him and how much she had relied on his presence growing up. She had been tasked with taking up needlework and being taught the ways of being a genteel southern lady. While she watched Bran learn sword play and the skills needed to be a great knight. She had been envious at how their roles had altered so quickly and of the new paths they were forced to take.

Bran, like her refused to accept the separation. She could remember him coming to her room after her first week of needlework. She had been miserable. When she saw him, she was angry, lashing out at him that he got to train with swords and armor while she sewed. That it wasn't fair. She was older, and that she had to do needlework and he didn't.

He had taken her outburst with a smile before telling her to follow him to the Godswood. Confused, and still angry, she did watching as he led her to one of the great trunks of an iron sentinel. Its base was hollowed out, he pulled out a cloak that had blended in with the trunk of the tree to see two practice swords. Still smiling, he quickly handed her one of them.

She had taken the sword with a surprised expression which only made him laugh, he then had answered the question she had wanted to ask.

I need to train with someone, he told her.

She could've pointed out the number of boys he could've trained with, but she didn't. Arya had understood the meaning behind his gesture and she would always be thankful for it.

Now, here she stood in his room.

He would never be a knight. He wouldn't be able to wield a sword the way he wanted to. He wouldn't be able to ride a horse. In going to Bear Island to foster with the Mormonts, she realized that she was living out Bran's dreams. She was doing the things he had wanted to do, but now because of his fall would never be able to.

And it wasn't fair! She thought, they should be going together! She couldn't deny the appeal of that. They had always done it together, and she felt guilty that she was able to continue, but he wasn't. She got to leave while he had to stay.

The guilt she felt made her tummy churn violently.

"Bran," she called out.

He blinked. He then turned his head to meet her. "You're leaving."

"Yeah, I am."

He nodded, his blue eyes looked distant. His lips pursed together as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't or wouldn't.

"I'll write to you," she promised.

"I know," His voice sounded wooden.

She had made it to the side of his bed. Her hands hung awkwardly to her side as she bit her lip not knowing what else to do or say to him. She couldn't understand the pain he was in. She felt her throat tighten.

Believing, their conversation was over; Bran turned his head and resumed staring up at the ceiling.

"I know it's not the same," she started, her voice wavering as if she wasn't sure if she should continue or not. Plucking up her courage, and not wanting to leave Bran in his current mood, she continued. "But I was told I would never be able to use a sword or learn how to fight because I'm a girl." She made a face to express what she thought about that opinion.

Arya could see Bran's face had hardened to the topic she was alluding to-his fall. She pressed on regardless, "But you always encouraged me," she sniffed, "You always let me practice with you even though I wasn't supposed to." She hesitantly reached for his hand which was lying limp at his side.

"Now, I'm going to Bear Island to foster with the Mormonts and continue my training and it's because of you," she squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Bran, for playing with me all these times and never forgetting about me even when we were supposed to learn different things." She rubbed at her eye when she felt tears prickling.

"You deserve it," Bran's voice was as soft as a whisper, as he turned his head to look at her. "You deserve to train with the Mormonts." His lips trembled, but a smile was pushed through, "I-I know you're going to do great."

"Thank you!" Arya didn't know how much she needed to hear those words from him until he said them. It felt as if a weight was lifted off her shoulders. She moved to him before she could lose her courage so that she could hug him. Arya could tell how surprised he was by how he was slow to react, but she soon felt his arms around her, as he awkwardly patted her back.

"You should go," he was smiling still, but there was no uncertainty this time in it. "Or the Mormonts may decide you're not worth the hassle."

Arya gingerly punched his shoulder as she laughed. She stuck her tongue out at him and he joined in on the laughter.

That was how she left him, with the both of them laughing.

\--------

The road to Bear Island was long and uneventful.

She wasn't sure what to expect of Bear Island.

Arya knew from her lessons from Maester Luwin that most of the inhabitants of the island lived along the coasts. From listening to Old Nan, she remembered the story of how one of her ancestors, Rodrik Stark had gotten the island from one of the weak Ironborn kings. It was said he won it in a wrestling match. He then bestowed the newly won island to House Mormont.

At that description of how the island was won, Arya couldn't help but think of her brother, Robb wrestling Theon for the future of the island. The image made her laugh.

The Mormont party that had come to take Arya to Bear Island was made up of men and women. They were led by the Heir to Bear Island, Dacey Mormont. She was tall and fierce. She wore leather armor with the Mormont sigil stitched into it: a black bear over a green wood. An axe hung loosely at her side while a wooden shield was resting on her back. The shield too had the Mormont sigil emblazoned on it.

Show me what you know, those were her words to Arya their first night away from Winterfell. Arya had proudly pulled out Needle, ignoring the looks and sniggers it got from some of the others and displayed the few techniques she had been able to pick up from overseeing Ser Rodrik's lessons. When she finished, she had turned to see the critical eye of Dacey Mormont appraising her.

You're a fighter, she had declared. You have some potential.

Arya had beamed at that.

The days blurred together for Arya Stark.

She lost track after the first week of traveling. The Mormont party mostly camped out once the day's ride was over. There were few inns this far north and castles for them to stay in. When they did come to one, they didn't pass the opportunity to stay somewhere with a roof over their heads and a warm fire in their rooms.

But soon, they left the mainland to sail to Bear Island. Arya had never traveled by boat before. It wasn't a fun part of the journey. Her stomach churning constantly as the boat beneath her glided over the waters. Nymeria seemed to like it more. Sitting out on the deck of the boat, eyes looking into the water, curious of the fish that swam below.

When Bear Island came into view it was a welcomed sight to Arya. She braved the cold, salty air and was thankful for the warm light of the sun that shined down on them. Looking out at Bear Island even from a distance she could tell it was a beautiful but harsh place.

From the shores of Bear Island, they then took their horses and rode to Mormont Keep. During that ride, Arya was able to see the towering pines, old gnarled oaks, rolling hills that had clear water steams slicing through them. She knew her brothers would've enjoyed it here. It was only after a short ride they reached their destination.

On one of those hills, she spotted Mormont Keep.

"Welcome, Arya," Dacey exclaimed with pride in her voice, "To my family's seat."

Servants had arrived to help them with the horses and unload Arya's things. They looked at Nymeria with awe and fear. At seeing Arya, they were quick to bow and curtsey, speaking about how honored they were to have a Stark with them.

Arya took their words with a nervous smile. This was something Sansa would know what to do or say. Thankfully, it seemed she didn't botch it. The people seemed pleased with her and had taken her things to the Keep. She kept her hand on Nymeria as she walked with Dacey up towards the Keep.

The castle seemed to be built mostly by earth and wood. It was surrounded by an earthen palisade. Smoke wafted from the hall of the keep. It was at the gate of the keep that had Arya staring. There was a carving of a woman in a bearskin. In one arm she held a babe tightly to her chest, and with the other, a battleaxe.

Here we stand, the words of House Mormont came to Arya in that moment. She found them fitting as she turned her gaze away from the carving on the gate.

Here I stand, she thought, ready to seize this opportunity.


	16. The Keeper

296 AC:

Strong arms pulled him away from the bloody mess on the floor of the inn.

He tried to fight them, but they're grip was iron. He still would not relent. He kicked and shook trying to break free, and was rewarded with a swift kick to the gut that sent pain up his side and a series of curses to escape his lips. He stopped struggling then. His eyes staring intently at the puddle of blood that had pooled around the corpse, the head bashed in, face unrecognizable, a bloody mess of flesh and bone.

His hands had been bound, but he could feel the warm slick feeling of blood between his fingers. He wanted to laugh at the sight of the gaping women and the horrified men as they dragged him out like some sort of deranged animal.

No, that's not true, he thought.

If they believed him a deranged animal they would've killed him then and there. They hadn't. Even in his primal haze of death with adrenaline coursing through his veins, he could deduce that there had been a reason that they spared him...

The men who had captured him had dragged him outside, the sun shining brightly. The surrounding woods seemed peaceful, and oblivious to the violence that had been inflicted so close at hand.

"This is the man?"

His thoughts came to a sudden halt at the soft, commanding voice. He knew who that voice belonged to. Feeling a coil of fear slither in his stomach, for the first time he wished they had killed him in that inn. Upon recognizing the voice of Lord Roose Bolton, he preferred death to whatever punishment the Lord of the Dreadfort would hand down.

"It is, my lord," Answered one of the guards. They didn't loosen their grip on him as if sensing he may try to run now that he was in the presence of the infamous Lord Bolton.

"Good."

He felt a shadow fall over him. He slowly looked up to see two pale blue eyes looking down at him, the face inscrutable. The infamous sigil of the Boltons was emblazoned on his armor. His eyes which resembled two chips of dirty ice appraised him silently with such intensity he couldn't meet them, ducking his head.

"You killed a man," The voice was quiet, the tone casual.

"Aye," he answered, transfixing his stare stubbornly on the ground at the lord's feet.

"Look at me," the voice barely carried above a whisper, but the strength behind it was unquestioned.

He did. Lord Bolton didn't react when his order was followed. His eyes remained on his face.

"I am the lord of these lands," he stated simply, "by killing this man it is my duty that justice be given in the form of your death."

"I understand," he replied. He didn't dare broach the topic of the Night's Watch. He didn't risk earning this man's ire.

"There are other punishments," Lord Bolton then turned abruptly and walked away.

Confused, he stared at the back of Lord Bolton's head, unsure what to do or say, but his choice was made for him. The guards roughly pulled him up to make him follow their liege lord.

"Some would consider these punishments worse than death."

Flaying, an icy claw squeezed around his heart upon realizing what Lord Bolton was hinting at.

He didn't answer. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

"My son has returned from his fostering in the Vale," Lord Bolton remarked, still the Lord of the Dreadfort continued to walk, never once turning to face him. "He has ridden to Winterfell to foster with the Starks and hopefully secure a more promising alliance between our families."

Marriage, he didn't have to be a nobleman or a maester to understand what Lord Bolton was hinting at.

"He belongs in the north, but there are those who could cause him harm," Lord Bolton then spun to meet him, his face hard and cold as if carved from ice.

Who would be foolish enough to risk the wrath of Lord Bolton? He couldn't understand.

"Those who would challenge his claim," Lord Bolton finished.

A bastard, he then realized. That he could understand. He was sure to have a few throughout the Weeping Water, but unlike Lord Bolton they had nothing to inherit from him.

"My son is," Lord Bolton paused as if trying to find the right way to describe him, "foolish enough to ignore my advice and try to seek his bastard brother out." Lord Bolton's jaw clenched, "That I cannot allow."

He wants me to kill him? He guessed, but remained quiet. He knew better then to speak unless directly instructed to.

"I would have you go to my bastard son," Lord Bolton informed him, "Befriend him, serve him, ingratiate yourself in his inner circle and have him see you as an ally." The Lord of the Dreadfort's eyes never left his face.

"From that position you are to ensure that my trueborn son never comes across his bastard brother. If he is foolish enough not to listen to my warnings then you must intercept him before he ever reaches the bastard." Lord Bolton took a step towards him.

"It would lead to his death, and that is an inconvenience I cannot allow," Lord Bolton's impassiveness at the suggestion of his son being killed and the emotional detachment he had at the scenario was unnerving. "My son has a purpose to play and an integral role in the north and in shaping our family's influence I will not risk it out of misplaced brotherly longing."

This hadn't been what he expected at all. Not when he was seized in the inn. Not when he was brought to Lord Bolton. He had been expecting death. That was to be his punishment. In his brief horror he allowed his thoughts to drift to being flayed, but this punishment… He wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Understand, this is not to be taken lightly," Lord Bolton warned. "This is a punishment that will be carried out through years. You will serve me. You will report to me. If you think of fleeing," There was a dangerous glint in those pale eyes, and the corner of Lord Bolton's lips tugged ever so slightly, "You will be found and your punishment will be most severe."

He gulped at the implication of what Lord Bolton's threat was referring to. "I don't understand," he found his courage, his words stumbling out of his mouth with little coherence as he remained the center of Lord Bolton's attention.

"Your role?" Lord Bolton guessed, "why I ask you to spy on my bastard instead of simply killing him?"

He looked away, startled at how easily the Lord of the Dreadfort could read him.

"The title of kin slayer is not something that the people forget," Lord Bolton said simply, "It is a deed most foul and a curse to any who perform it." His face remained impassive making it difficult to gauge if he truly believed those words or if he was simply parroting what others thought.

He nodded, not wanting to question Lord Bolton any further. He thought about his words, weighed his warning, he was thankful for the silence and the time that Lord Bolton gave him.

In the end, he decided. Death was something no one knew or could understand. He preferred to live. This was the world he knew.

"I accept, Lord Bolton," he bowed his head.

"Good," Lord Bolton's voice conveyed no feeling or thought of what he held on the matter. "Your punishment begins now."

\-------------------  
Present Day: 

The warmth of the sunlight sheathed him from the cold wintery wind as he found himself outside of a quiet little inn on the Weeping Water. It was just a few days ride from the Dreadfort, the seat of House Bolton.

The area around the Weeping Water and Lonely Hills were dealing with some tumultuous times. A group that had been given the name, The Bastard Boys were raiding and terrorizing the people. It was rumored they were led by a vicious bastard, Ramsay Snow, the supposed baseborn son of Lord Roose Bolton, of the Dreadfort.

It was an inn like this one where he met with Lord Bolton two years ago to pledge his service and to begin his punishment. In that time, he had become the bastard's keeper. In the service of Ramsay Snow, he committed deeds more foul than any he had made before he agreed to Lord Bolton's punishment.

He pushed aside that dreadful revelation that plagued him, and clamped down on Lord Bolton's warning that always wormed its way into his thoughts. He moved inside to be greeted by the innkeeper, an old woman with white, fraying hair, and a few wisps that were positioned on her upper lip. She gave him a suspicious stare.

"I'm looking for someone," he ignored her stare. "I think he's already here." He then moved to the coin purse tied at his hip and took out a few silvers and presented them to her. "Do you mind if I go up and check?"

Her eyes transfixed on the silver stags, quickly nodded her consent. He dropped the stags in her waiting hands and passed through the near deserted hall and moved up the stairs that led to the handful of rooms that were rented out.

He climbed up the steps and made his way towards the nearest door. He kept a hand on the pommel of his axe while the other went to the doorknob. He opened it and carefully stepped in. Looking around to the small room, to see a fireplace on one side, two narrow windows, and a tiny bed that looked like it could barely hold a grown man.

It was in the corner where he found the man waiting for him.

Sitting in one of two chairs at a small round table, was a young man who had boyish looks and probably would've been considered handsome if not for the scowl that was ever present on his face. He had light hair that was slicked back. His eyes were brown and alert and when they saw him, he simply pointed to the empty chair across from him.

"Damon," he greeted the man who was sitting.

"Bitter," Damon acknowledged him.

Bitter, that was the name he was anointed with when he was initiated with the others. A reference to where he hailed from, the Bite. It could've been worse. He could've been called Yellow Dick.

When he wasn't in the presence of their leader, he preferred his true name, Robard. It served as a reminder of who he once was. It wasn't Robard that had done those terrible deeds, but Bitter.

Damon like him had been recruited by Lord Bolton to help spy on Ramsay. Unlike him, it wasn't a punishment for Damon, but a job. He was being paid for his service. He and him were the only ones who knew they were reporting to Lord Bolton.

The others in their little group had no idea who their true allegiance was to. They were all sworn to Ramsay.

He and Damon made the same oaths of loyalty to Ramsay like the others, but neither was loyal to the bastard. They served the Lord of the Dreadfort. The two of them would meet every so often to exchange their observations and reports that Lord Bolton had given them as well as their own thoughts on Ramsay and the others.

It was a welcome reprieve for Robard. A chance for him to slink back to the man he was before he had killed that man in the inn; before he had accepted Lord Bolton's punishment.

Damon gestured to the pitcher of ale that was resting on the table.

"Aye," Robard took his seat and took a mug of the northern ale that Damon poured with a curt nod.

"You hear the name the people have given us?"

"It seems fitting." Robard thought they deserved a worse name. The Bastard Boys was what all any of the people seemed to be talking about in this area.

"Ramsay doesn't like it," Damon observed. "It reminds him of his baseborn status."

Robard had greedily drunk up the swill that this inn called ale. It tasted terrible, but it was warm and strong. He put the empty tankard down.

"He is a bastard," he pointed out, realizing it was the ale that was making him bold. He knew what Ramsay's reaction would be if that was said in his presence. Robard had seen Ramsay kill a man for a lesser offense.

Damon's lips curved upwards. "You don't like our leader."

"I don't like his ways," Robard said delicately. Even in the company of Damon he chose his words carefully. He may be an ally to him against Ramsay, but he was still not someone Robard fully trusted.

I should've let Lord Bolton take my head, he thought glumly as he refilled his tankard. He had seen and done terrible things under the guise of a faithful friend to Ramsay Snow. He was now the bastard's keeper for Lord Bolton. Death would have been better, he thought.

It had been the only way to earn the bastard's trust. That had been his punishment after all. Lord Bolton had passed the sentence after he accepted the terms. He knew if he failed the Lord of the Dreadfort now, his punishment would be worse then it would've been if he had simply accepted his fate that day outside that inn. That would've been a swift death. Now, he wasn't sure what sort of death he'd be given if he failed Lord Bolton.

He took a smaller sip this time from his tankard. "Lord Bolton doesn't like these raids." He had met with the Lord of the Dreadfort a few nights ago to give him his report.

Lord Bolton spoke plainly of his dissatisfaction of them letting Ramsay carry out these raids in the Lonely Hills and along the Weeping Water. How it went against his creed: a peaceful land, a quiet people.

The land was anything but peaceful.

Ramsay had grown bold. He no longer liked being hidden away in some remote mill. He had been told of his heritage by his mother and servant, Reek. He believed himself entitled to certain forms of entertainment since he was the son of Lord Bolton. The laws applied to the people, he would say, not to me.

It was hard for the people to be quiet when Ramsay had them raped and flayed. He was amassing quite the collection of skins. He hung them as trophies back at their base.

Proof of my heritage, Ramsay would declare happily. Our family has flayed our enemies for centuries, he'd continue on his little history lesson.

You're no Bolton, Robard had always wanted to say, but he wasn't brave or stupid enough. You're just a Snow.

Robard didn't know what was worse: the sight of all those flayed skins or the fact that they no longer turned his stomach. He was use to them.

"His baseborn blood has a certain thirst that needs to be quenched," Damon pointed out.

He's not the only one with thirsts, Robard was referring to the others who had flocked to Ramsay's side. They enjoyed the games as much as Ramsay. Skinner liked to flay the victims as much as Ramsay. Yellow Dick preferred the raping; while Grunt liked the raping and the killing in equal measures.

They were all monsters. They now just served the worse of them in the form of Ramsay Snow.

"The mother isn't helping," Robard couldn't stand her. She was unstable. Not that he was surprised if the stories of how Ramsay was conceived were true. That would unhinged anyone.

She ranted about how her son, her Ramsay had the right to the Dreadfort and no one else. The words had taken root in Ramsay's head and he viewed himself a truer Bolton then Lord Bolton's true son. That he had certain rights that were being denied to him.

"No, she isn't," Damon agreed. "And Reek," he made a face to convey what he thought of Ramsay's twisted, little pet, "Is only making it worse."

"Aye," Robard sighed.

"If she continues in her lessons about his birthright it will prompt him to act."

"He's a bastard," Robard shook his head. "He has no birthright."

"That doesn't make him any less dangerous," Damon reminded him.

Robard couldn't deny that. Ramsay had delusions of grandeur seeing himself as the rightful heir to the Dreadfort. It was him not Domeric who was Lord Bolton's true son. The conviction coupled with the madness and the willingness to see it through formed a very real threat.

"Did you tell Lord Bolton?" Damon leaned back in his seat.

"Aye," Robard had informed Lord Bolton of Ramsay's mother and Reek's involvement of putting forth the notion that Ramsay not Domeric was the true heir to the Dreadfort. He had not been pleased.

"Is it time to end this farce?"

"No," Robard resisted the frown that came to his face at the disappointing news that Lord Bolton still did not see the need to put his bastard down. The taboo of kinslaying stayed his hand.

"Then we continue," Damon spoke in a flat tone. "In our service to Ramsay," He held up his cup in mock toast, "To the Bastard Boys."

\-----------------------

"Its yours," proclaimed the servant known as Reek. A young man who always seem to have a malicious gleam in his dark eyes. "All you have to do is take it!"

Even from where he stood, several feet away, Robard could still smell the man. The name was most fitting.

Reek had been given to Ramsay's mother by Lord Bolton when she asked for help in raising her son. It seemed more a cruel jape on Lord Bolton's part then anything else. There wasn't just a foul odor that seemed to radiate off of him, but a sick cruelty that could only be matched by Ramsay.

They were all gathered. Ramsay had wanted them all together. He had plans. That was what he told them.

Ramsay Snow did not seem to have inherited any of the finer traits of either of his parents. He was ugly. He was fat and slope shouldered. He had a broad nose and small mouth. His hair was long, dark and unkempt. His eyes looked like two dirty chips of ice. He had his father's eyes. They were the reason he had not been killed when his mother presented him to Lord Bolton.

"You are right," he agreed. He looked to them and his pale eyes glistened with a hunger that never could be satisfied. "The people of this area need a Lord who knows the Weeping Water, who's traveled through the Lonely Hills." His lips were wide and meaty and when he smiled it made his lips sheen in wetness.

"I am the true heir to the Bolton legacy," he declared. "I will be the next Lord of the Dreadfort!"

No one dared challenge him. No one dared speak about Lord Bolton's son. It was never wise to mention him.

Robard could still remember the rage Ramsay displayed when it was announced of the betrothal between Domeric Bolton and Sansa Stark. It had taken him a week and a handful of victims to work the fury out of him. Ramsay believed himself fitting of these honors that were being given to Lord Bolton's son.

"A pretender stands to inherit the Dreadfort," Ramsay shook his head in disgust. "He is no true Bolton!"

"Impostor," Reek hissed at Ramsay's side.

"That's right, Reek," Ramsay's tone was almost affectionate. He withdrew a dagger from his sheath and turned towards them.

"We will cleanse the bad blood," Ramsay promised. "The time is nearing when the people will rally behind their true lord."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bitter Robard is an OC I created who is one of Ramsay's confidants in the Bastard Boys. However, I didn't want him to be as depraved as Ramsay and the others hence the OC.
> 
> This is AU so I've taken liberties with Ramsay and the Bastard Boys. This is a different handling of them then what we get in the book. Since circumstances have changed in this story.
> 
> Even when Domeric is alive and at the age of maturity in the books, Roose made no move to kill his bastard when he seemed aware of his bastard's tendencies. So I don't think it's a stretch to have Ramsay still alive in this story either.
> 
> I thought it would be interesting to get some glimpses of what Ramsay is up to. Hopefully, I wasn't wrong.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> Spectre4hire


	17. Domeric

"You look pleased."

"You could say that."

"It must have to do with your father's visit."

"Nothing gets by you, Lord Tyrion," Domeric had finished supper and had retreated to the library, looking and hoping for the man, he now saw sitting before him. Lord Tyrion had sat at this and only this table every time he came to visit the library since the royal party arrived to Winterfell.

"May I sit?" Domeric pointed to an empty seat across from Lord Tyrion.

"I'd be honored," Tyrion acquiesced, moving a book so Domeric could rest his arms on the table if he so chose.

No one was more surprised by this unlikely friendship between himself and Tyrion then Domeric. At first, he hadn't known what to make of the Imp. The library here at Winterfell was one of his favorite places to visit during his time fostering with the Starks, and had become a refuge to him to avoid the onslaught of southerners who had come north with the royal party.

So when he arrived one night to see Lord Tywin Lannister's youngest son here in the library it had annoyed him greatly. Domeric was wary of his presence. His short time around the Lannister men had not endeared them to him, they were rude, arrogant, and dismissive of their new northern surroundings. So this had been the last person he had wanted to see here.

However, Domeric was very pleased to admit he had been proven wrong in his hasty judgment of this Lannister. It had happened when Domeric had noticed one of the books, Lord Tyrion had taken, a favorite of Domeric's and he couldn't help but make a passing mention of it.

Tyrion had been just as surprised by the remark as Domeric had been saying it. From there, the two discovered and then bonded their mutual interest in reading and history. Unlike, the other southerners who mocked the North, Tyrion had shown a great amount of respect and interest in the North and its traditions. With that in mind, Domeric recommended various tomes for him to read since the Stark library had an impressive collection.

"And did your father ride all this way from the Dreadfort just to say hello to you?" Tyrion asked wryly.

"No," Domeric answered, "He consented to let me go south to King's Landing."

"My sympathies," Tyrion bowed his head.

As grateful as he was with his father's decision, Domeric couldn't deny the apprehension that wormed its way in his gut. That was why he had come here. He sought out Lord Tyrion, someone who lived in the capital, surely he'd have advice on how to survive in such a city.

"Will you return to the capital after your visit to the Wall?"

"Let's see, the warm embrace of a whore within the capital or to Casterly Rock and the withering glare of my father?" Tyrion feigned the difficulty at the choices presented to him.

In his limited time with Tyrion, Domeric had picked up the tension between Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and that of his youngest son. He understood the looming shadow a father could cast on their son. Domeric could relate to a father's expectation and the effect it could have, but fortunately for Domeric he was in a position to be able to meet them. Tyrion had never gotten that luxury.

"It would be good to know a friendly face in the capital," Domeric admitted sincerely.

Tyrion looked taken aback by the words, but covered it up almost at once with an over the top smile. "Aye," he inclined his head in Domeric's direction. "Who would've thought: Bolton and Lannister, lion and flayed man, friends?"

"It's the sort of story that the Maesters in Oldtown would one day tell."

"Indeed," Tyrion quipped, "A real page turner."

The two shared a brief laugh at that ridiculous notion. The mirthful atmosphere helped give Domeric the time to formulate how and what he was going to ask his new friend in terms of what to do to survive the south.

"I need your advice," Domeric put in bluntly. "You've lived there. I need to know people I can trust."

"Ahh, well you see it's a short list," Tyrion said simply, "Trust no one."

"I was hoping for something else." Domeric frowned.

"I get that a lot," Tyrion replied dryly.

"Mayhaps I made a mistake," Domeric leaned back in his seat. "Is it folly to go south?"

"You go south to protect your betrothed," Tyrion observed. "There's no folly in that." His mismatch eyes stayed on Domeric. "You were right to want to go with her."

"What are you saying?"

"That my nephew will one day be king," Tyrion said with a sour look. "And he is not used to being told no. Thanks to my sweet sister."

Domeric didn't like what Tyrion was implying. "He wouldn't."

"He would not be the first Crown Prince to take someone else's betrothed."

"Never," His hands clenched on the table. He could feel the anger burning through his blood at the thought of Joffrey trying to break their betrothal. "I'd kill him first."

"Careful," Tyrion cautioned with a disappointed look. He then looked around the library to make sure they were alone. "You're walking into a viper's nest. Where everyone wears a mask and puts on a performance." He leaned forward. "Your words will always be heard. You must tread lightly on what you do and say."

Domeric sighed. "What have I gotten myself into?"

"The Game of Thrones," Tyrion answered lightly.

"I didn't want this," Domeric ran a hand through his hair. "I just want Sansa to be safe."

"You are a good man, Domeric," Tyrion observed, "Best be careful because they do not last in the capital."

"I feel better already."

 

Domeric let out a sigh. Blinking back to the present after recalling his conversation with Lord Tyrion from when they were both in Winterfell. There Domeric had sought his new friend out for advice, words he tried to remember while he tread lightly here in King's Landing. With the tournament of the Hand looming before them, Domeric tried his best to put his mind on that and not to think or dwell on the potential pitfalls that could endanger him and Sansa.

"Lord Domeric?" A wrapping at the door followed.

"Yes, Captain Rylen?"

"The Lady Sansa is here."

"Please, let her in," Domeric spared a passing glance at the nearby mirror to make sure he looked ready. Tonight, he, Sansa, and Lord Stark had been invited to dine with the royal family in their private dining chambers. An honor he was certain most in the Kingdoms would pay handsomely for and those who couldn't pay would find some unsavory way to get such an invitation, but to Domeric he faced this dinner with resigned acceptance.

The door opened, and his betrothed, and future Lady of the Dreadfort stepped in, looking beautiful in her pale blue gown. When their eyes met she smiled, and Domeric was quick to return it, moving to cut the distance between them, when they were close enough, he kissed her cheek.

"I'm escorting the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms to supper this evening."

"Dom," Sansa rolled her eyes at his declaration, but a red blush colored her cheeks all the same at his praise. "Are you ready to depart?"

"I am," Domeric tried not to fidget in his dark doublet, with red stitching, the heat of this city made him sweat more in an hour then he would all day in the training yards back at Winterfell. "What of Lord Stark?"

"He's waiting for us at the bottom of the Tower."

"Let's not keep him waiting," Domeric offered her his arm, "Shall we?"

She smiled, tucking her hand into the nook of his arm as they went of his chambers, two Bolton men-at-arms were quick to follow them, but kept a respectable distance to allow himself and Sansa to talk in private.

"How's Lady?"

"Frustrated, that she could not attend."

"Me too," Domeric admitted, "I'd rather dine with her then," he stopped himself from finishing the joke, remembering that the walls of the Red Keep had ears and any slight against the royal family was potentially dangerous.

Sansa seemed to think along similar lines, as she swatted his arm, "Dom," she chastised.

"I know," he admitted, but he was certain he spotted the corner of her lips pull upward at the joke all the same. "It is only for one night," he reminded her.

"I still didn't like leaving her," Sansa lamented, "I always feel safer when she's with me."

"I can understand that," Domeric observed, "She is a direwolf."

Sansa laughed, "You know what I mean."

Domeric smiled, "I do."

"I suppose you'll just have to do for this evening."

"I'll try not disappoint you," he replied dryly.

"Never," Sansa assured him, before kissing his cheek.

It was at that point, Lord Stark cleared his throat. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs waiting for them.

Domeric quickly wiped away the foolish smile he was sure to be wearing after receiving a kiss from his betrothed. Straightening up instinctively and turning to face the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Hand to the King, and his future good father. For some reason, Domeric found that last title the most intimidating.

"Lord Stark," Domeric greeted, quickly and respectfully, "What you saw was-"

He held up his hand and Domeric stopped with whatever feeble excuse he would've come up with. "I know what I saw, Domeric." His grey eyes staring at him, his face impassive, and then in a blink, a smile came to his lips, and a chuckle followed. "My daughter being affectionate with her soon to be husband." Still smiling, he added, "Seeing my daughter so happy, makes me happy, Domeric."

"I'll keep that in mind, Lord Stark," Domeric felt a sense of relief settle in his stomach.

Sansa giggled, "Father," she playfully chided him, before slipping her grip from Domeric to greet her father with a hug. "You look very handsome, father." She inspected his choice of clothes.

"Your mother's work, I assure you," he deflected the praise.

"Well, you were wise enough to listen," She smiled, she then looked over her shoulder towards Domeric, "A good trait for husbands to have."

"Aye," Lord Stark agreed with another hearty chuckle. "Come let us not keep the King and the royal family waiting."

\---------------------

"Ned!" The King greeted them with unbridled enthusiasm, "Glad you could come."

"You did invite us, Your Grace," Ned replied dryly.

Robert laughed at the jape, "Come, sit down."

The dining chambers for the royal family were intimate and ornate, a dozen or so arched windows that allowed the cool breeze of the Blackwater to come in, billowing the black and yellow curtains as they breathed out cool winds from the bay. The room was empty of people save for King Robert who had already started drinking if the half empty pitcher of wine was any indication. There was also Ser Barristan Selmy, who stood just inside the room, he greeted them with an acknowledged nod, but did nothing else.

"Are we early?" Ned asked.

"No, you're not," the King's face turned as if he smelled something foul, "The Queen decided to have dinner already with the children."

"Ah," Ned replied. It was then that they took their seats. Lord Stark taking a seat to the king's left with Sansa taking the seat beside her father while Domeric hesitated with where to sit, indecision kept him rooted in his spot for a few seconds before deciding on taking the seat to the king's immediate right..

"That's my charming wife for you," the king muttered.

"What are we dining on tonight, your grace?"

"Ned," Robert warned him with an annoyed look, "None of this 'your grace,' nonsense, when it's just us."

"As you wish, Robert," Ned inclined his head.

"No bowing either, Ned," Robert mumbled, staring at Ned for a heartbeat or two before he started to laugh, "Ah, you had me there, Ned!"

Domeric spared a look across the table to where Sansa was sitting to see her look just as bemused as he felt. Before any more could be said, the servants came in with their first course, which was of a thick soup made with pumpkins.

He tried not to show his hesitance when he tucked into his soup, his stomach was still trying to get use to southern food. He dipped his spoon in and sipped on it, pleased at the sweet taste, he took a second spoonful and continued to enjoy it.

"You look as lovely as your mother at that age, Sansa." Robert praised her.

"Thank you, your grace."

Robert smiled, "Did your father ever tell you the time that he started a food fight while we're fostering with Lord Arryn in the Vale?"

"Really?" Sansa couldn't help but giggle at that thought of her father doing such a thing. She turned to her father for confirmation.

"Robert," Ned sounded exasperated, but there was a smile on his lips.

"Oh, it's a great story, Ned!" Robert looked enthused at the chance of retelling it. "We're no older than nine or ten and Lord Arryn was hosting some important families from throughout the Vale." The smile beneath his beard continued to grow, "When Ned-"

"You," Ned cut in, still smiling. "It was you, not me."

"I'm telling the story, Ned," Robert's blue eyes were sparkling.

"When your father took issue with what of the boys from erh." Robert's face scrunched up as If trying to recall the house, "Waynwood," he snapped his fingers, before frowning, "Or was it, oh bother who cares," he shook his head. "Said about the north being full of savages." He took a small sip, licking his lip before continuing, "And your father, grabbed a fistful of fish and said is this savage enough for you? Before promptly hurling it at the boy." Robert roared with laughter.

Domeric and Sansa too were quick to join in on the laughter when the king concluded the story.

Surprised and entertained by the tale, it was a rare delight to hear Lord Stark participate in such an act of rebellion. It was difficult for Domeric to even imagine a young nine-year-old Lord Stark let alone think of him committing such a feat.

"That was you, Robert," Ned reminded his friend, "And the boys retaliated, the entire hall descended into madness, not to mention the mess," he chuckled, "And Lord Arryn made us clean it all up!"

Robert was still laughing. "It was worth it, Ned." He wiped away a mirthful tear, "Those were good days."

"Aye, they were." Ned agreed.

At that point, the servants returned and the soup was taken away, and their next course was presented to them, a salad with spinach, plums, and sprinkled with crushed nuts.

The King didn't seem too excited by his salad, and poured himself another glass of wine, his face already red, but Domeric thought it was from the laughing, not the drinking. "Lord Arryn was a good man." Robert bowed his head down as if giving a prayer to the deceased former Hand of the King. He then lifted his head and took a large sip from his glass, his eyes looked to be glistening in the candlelight for an instant. "I appreciate you coming down here, Ned."

"Robert-"

"No, Ned," he cut him off, "You left your home and your wife, and your family, especially your boy," he frowned, "I'm grateful, Ned. I truly am. You're the only one I can trust here."

He gave Robert a nod to acknowledge he heard him, "I was honored, Robert."

Robert snorted, "As honored as I was when I took this crown?"

"Not that honored," Ned observed wryly, and soon the two men were chuckling together once more.

It was strange, Domeric thought, seeing this side of the stoic Lord Stark. In his two years at Winterfell, he did see Lord Stark smile and laugh, especially when he was with the children, but Domeric never saw such ease in his joking like when he was with Robert.

"Ned, told me you stayed in the Vale when you were younger."

It took Domeric a second or so to realize that he was the one the king was addressing. He put his fork down and turned to face him, "Aye, I did, your grace."

"The Vale," Robert murmured, his eyes misted with wistfulness. "Who'd you foster with?"

"Lord Redfort, your grace."

"Horton?" the king asked for clarity.

"Yes, your grace."

"Good man," Robert nodded, "Great warrior, I recall he was at the Trident with us, Ned."

"He was, Robert," Lord Stark didn't seem to look at the battles during the Rebellion with the same fondness as his friend.

The King remained quiet for a few more seconds, as if recalling the brutal and bloody battle, before seemingly pulling himself out of the recollection, "I remember every face that day I killed."

"Robert," It was clear this wasn't a topic of conversation Lord Stark wanted to dwell on.

If the king heard Ned's warning he gave no indication, finishing his glass of wine in one long greedy gulp before setting it down so that he could pour himself another one. "Especially his," Robert's grip on his glass tightened, "I slew him, but I still lost her." He took a sip of his glass, "Bah!" he grunted, sitting and stewing in his dark thoughts and memories of what had happened.

"Robert?" Ned said to try to nudge his friend. "Do you remember that time we went out that night, using the basket to leave the Eyrie."

That reminder caused the king's lips to twitch. A certain luster returned to his eyes which seemed to shine whenever he thought back about their days in the Vale. "Aye, I remember," He chuckled, "Lord Arryn wasn't pleased."

"No, he was not," Ned agreed.

"How often was Lord Arryn not pleased, father?" Sansa asked with an innocent smile.

"A time or two," Ned admitted, a flicker of amusement in his grey eyes.

\------------

Lady greeted them later that night with a swishing tail, and excited yips. The direwolf went to her mistress first, licking Sansa's fingers. "I'm sorry, Lady," she told her beloved direwolf. "I wanted to come back as quickly as I could." She kissed the top of Lady's head.

Satisfied at the affection, Lady then moved to Domeric, who smiled down at the direwolf, crouching down to pet her where he was immediately bombarded with Lady licking his face. He chuckled, moving out of reach, extending his hands to try to have her keep her distance. He then used one hand to pet her under the jaw, knowing that was one spot she particularly liked, and with his other hand, wiped away the side of his face which had received Lady's greeting.

Sansa had moved to sit on the sofa, letting out a sigh as she did. "He's miserable." She leaned back in her cushioned seat.

"Aye," Domeric moved to stand up after Lady retreated to take a spot beneath Sansa's feet.

"And all because of the woman he was betrothed to, my aunt," Sansa paused, "had died."

Domeric felt a cold coil wrap itself around his heart, squeezing tightly, upon the chilling thought of Sansa being the one to die, and him being left behind. To live without her for the remainder of his days…

"Dom," Sansa's warm voice pushed away his melancholy thoughts.

He looked to see she was watching him. He wondered if she knew what he had been thinking. "Good night, my lady," he moved towards her, before pressing a quick kiss to her lips while his hand lightly touched her cheek.

Her eyes were looking at him carefully, but she didn't press, "Good night, Dom."

He smiled down at her, kissing her forehead, before standing up and withdrawing from her chambers.

Reflecting once more on the king and his dark moods while he still mourned the betrothed he lost so many years ago. Would he be so different if it was Sansa?

Domeric shuddered at the coldness that seemed to fill him with that dreadful scenario. It was with that fear that he sent a silent prayer to the gods that night, asking them to protect her, to not go through the ordeal of losing his betrothed, of losing someone he loved.

I'll do anything to keep her safe, he prayed, anything.


	18. Sansa

Sansa found herself in the Queen's Solar with the Queen as well as the Princess. She had been invited to join them for a luncheon. 

Her first of many invitations she was expecting on receiving during her stay in the King's Landing. She was resigned to this routine. She knew her time would often be spent with the Princess, and how it was expected of her to attend sessions with Myrcella. Sansa was thankful for the small blessing that her duties and lessons would mostly shield her from having to spend time with the Crown Prince.

Avoiding the Queen was another matter.

The Queen looked splendid in her dress. In days like this, Sansa could understand why the Queen was considered the most beautiful woman in Westeros. Dressed in beautiful silk and lace the colors of her family's house. Glints of metal could be seen that had been sewed in alongside the fabric. A golden pendant of a lion hung from her neck. Her golden hair done up in intricate braids and held by glimmering hairpins that looked encrusted in jewels.

Sansa then turned to the Princess. Myrcella looked a miniature version of her mother. Her dress though done in the colors of the Lannisters did not contain the billowing sleeves or the layered look her mother chose. Nor did it contain the metal pieces. No, her dress was cut a bit lower, even in her youth it made the princess look older and amplified her curves.

She was sure it would've made quite the impact on her brother, Robb had he seen his future wife in such a dress. Yet, it was a look that would be chastised just as quickly. One would not wear such clothing in the north. It just wasn't practical. It was a fitting style in the south and in the capital's court, but in Winterfell, it would not endure.

Another lesson, Sansa thought, she may need to instruct the Princess on. Glancing briefly at her choice of attire, she had made some concessions and had been wearing more dresses in the southern style to help combat the stifling heat of the capital. Sansa also knew it wouldn't do good to displease the Queen who put quite the emphasis on fashion and style. It was easier to win her favor by agreeing with her and choosing to dress in a similar manner.

Sansa had chosen a light blue dress, one of her more recently made ones. She had instructed the seamstress to inject some soft red and pink laces and silk into it to signal her coming nuptials to Domeric. She thought a blend of the Bolton colors into her clothes was a subtle, but effective reminder of her loyalties and her anticipated fate as Lady Bolton of the Dreadfort. Sansa had been delighted with how it turned out and quickly became one of her favorites.

A spread of food was out on the table that included fresh fruits from the Reach, apples, strawberries, and blood oranges. There was also some roasted duck, but the main course was a creamy chestnut soup with fresh baked bread that brought a rich aroma to settle in within the solar.

"This must be so overwhelming for you, my dear."

Sansa looked up to see she was the center of the Queen's attention.

"Your time in the north could not prepare you for the glory of the south," The Queen sent her a sympathetic look.

"The Princess," Sansa turned to Myrcella to give her future good sister a warm smile, "Has been so very helpful."

Myrcella beamed at her from where she sat. She didn't speak as she had just taken a bite of bread, but she looked very pleased.

The Queen too smiled, though hers was more forced then her daughter's.

"It seems unfair that you only get a glimpse of this life." The Queen paused to take a sip of wine, looking Sansa over from the brim of her glass, "Before you must return to the dreary north."

It's more fortunate then unfair, Sansa thought. She no longer had dreams for this life. The stories and songs no longer held sway over her. It was not the south she longed for, but the return north.

"I'm just thankful that I'll be able to attend a tournament," Sansa wanted to deflect the Queen's attention and insults away from her and her home.

"Oh yes!" Myrcella clapped her hands from where she was sitting across from Sansa. "The tournament will be wonderful!" Her green eyes nearly glazing over, "Mother has already allowed me a new dress."

"Of course, my sweet," The Queen squeezed her daughter's hand. "Let the kingdoms see their beautiful princess." She smiled at her daughter, "Knights will be inspired by your beauty and will fight one another to name you their Queen."

Myrcella brightened at her mother's words. "Not all knights though," the princess turned to Sansa with a mischievous grin, "I'm sure Domeric will fight to name you his Queen, Sansa."

Sansa couldn't stop the slight blush that came to her cheeks at that image. She wanted to say she outgrew such fantasies and how they would not matter to her, but she couldn't deny the appeal at the scene when it was conjured before her. Or the smile that came to her lips.

It would be a bonus, she thought, but what she preferred over a crown of flowers was that Domeric escape the tournament unscathed of any serious injury. Win or lose, Domeric meant more to her then any performance in this tournament. Just let him come out unharmed.

"You forget darling," The Queen's tone cut through Sansa's thoughts like a rusty knife. "Domeric Bolton is no knight." She sniffed, "the north isn't cultured enough for such titles."

Isn't foolish enough, Sansa wanted to rebut, but she restrained herself. The way the south viewed her home, her people, her family was infuriating. They looked down on the North. Sansa knew more loyal men with courage in the north then any knight she met in the capital. Good, honest men who fought and served her family who didn't need lavish titles to do their duty.

"Tell me, Sansa," the Queen asked, "How is Domeric?" The feigned sincerity in her voice was almost completely concealed. "Is he ready for such a tournament?" The Queen was cutting up her meat in a swift sawing motion, "This is his first tournament after all," she paused to meet Sansa's eyes. "Blood will be spilt."

"Domeric is well, Your Grace," Sansa answered politely, "He will be humbled and honored to know that you have asked about him."

"He isn't nervous?" Myrcella asked.

"He's prepared," Sansa settled on that answer. She didn't like the idea of divulging Domeric's practice or preparations for the upcoming tournament.

"Admirable," The Queen's tone conveyed that she found it anything but, "men have died in these tournaments." She stabbed one of the pieces of meat. "It would be a pity for something to happen to him during the lists." She chewed on it delicately.

"One never knows whose ones opponent will be." She moved onto another piece. "He could find himself facing the Mountain."

Myrcella whimpered at the mention of the fearsome knight Ser Gregor Clegane also known as the Mountain. "Not him!" She sounded afraid, "He's scary, mother!"

The queen moved to soothe the upset princess. "You have nothing to fear from him, my darling." She put a comforting hand on her daughter's shoulder. "He serves our family faithfully. He would die for you."

But Domeric does, Sansa knew what the Queen wanted to say about the Mountain to the Princess. He was a loyal knight to the Lannisters. He would hold no qualms in hurting Domeric or any other man who stood in front of him. She ignored the icy feel in her tummy at the thought of the Mountain facing Domeric in the tourney.

"I hope Domeric does well," Myrcella spoke up; from her seat the princess didn't see the frown on the Queen's lips. "After all, we're to be good sisters soon!" She proclaimed in a giddy voice.

Sansa returned the Princess' smile. Not for the first time, silently thankful that Myrcella didn't seem to share her mother's temperament. "And I'm so thankful for all you've done for me and Domeric since we've arrived."

"It's my duty," Myrcella told Sansa sincerely before turning to face her mother, "I've already shown her around the Red Keep."

"That's wonderful, darling," The Queen praised, "Though I hope you have been courteous in your tour." Giving her daughter a true smile, "For there are some parts of the Keep that could be detrimental to our guest."

Her green eyes then turned to Sansa. "I pray to the Mother that you had better sense not to show her the Great Hall."

The feigned apprehension in the Queen's voice was easy to spot. The reminder of the Great Hall was anything but innocent. Sansa knew what the Queen was alluding to. The Great Hall had been the sight of one of the main catalysts that had launched a rebellion against the Targaryen regime. It was there that the Mad King had killed Sansa's grandfather and uncle in a twisted depraved mockery of the sacred Trial by Combat.

"She has not," Sansa said politely. She had made no effort to seek it out. In truth, she wasn't sure if she was brave enough.

"That's good," The Queen's honeyed voice nearly made Sansa cringe. "Jaime was there when it happened," she took a long sip from her wine glass; "I asked him once if it was as bad as the bards and maesters claim it to be."

This was the Queen the people didn't see, Sansa looked down at her bowl of soup.

"He said it was worse," The Queen spoke quietly. "The bards couldn't do justice to the screams Lord Rickard Stark made when he was burned alive."

Sansa took a breath to try to calm the anger she felt beginning to churn in her tummy.

"Or that the Maesters couldn't properly describe the smell of burnt flesh that hung in the air."

No more facades from the Queen now, Sansa thought bitterly. Once she returned to the Red Keep, to the capital. There was no more need for a performance.

"He always said that wasn't even the worse of it, it was the silence that followed once they were dead that was only interrupted by the roar of laughter from the Mad King himself."

I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, she reminded herself. And I am a direwolf who fears no lion.

"Thankfully, we have been blessed with a more civilized king and queen." Sansa raised her glass of wine she barely had touched, "Long may they reign." She looked over to see the princess had gone pale at her mother's story.

The Queen ignored her daughter's reaction. Her attention transfixed on Sansa. The corner of her lips curved upwards ever so slightly, before she mirrored Sansa's movement and raised her glass as well.

"May our friends be rewarded and our enemies punished."

\----------------------

"My lady."

Sansa turned to see Domeric standing in her doorway. His face was flushed, signaling he had only just recently returned from practicing in the yard. He wore black breeches and an equally black doublet, with the pink flayed man embroidered into it.

Lady had gotten up from her spot by the hearth to greet him. Tail wagging, as she licked his outstretched hand, he smiled when he patted her head, but his eyes were on her.

"Dom," She greeted him warmly. Sansa had recently returned from her luncheon with the Queen and the Princess.

He moved towards her to embrace her, she welcomed his touch. Her head resting on his chest as his settled on top of hers, she felt the gentle kiss he planted in her hair. His hand soothingly went up and down her back.

This was what she needed. In his arms, she felt safe. Even here in this rat's nest. She could feel the tension melting away by his touch. The knots in her tummy went undone in his presence. The anxiety that had been bubbling up was quick to dissipate.

"Your Septa told me you were with the Queen."

She looked up to see the concern etched in his face.

"I'm sorry I couldn't attend it with you."

"You needed to practice," she pointed out.

"That can wait," he moved his hand towards her cheek. "You're more important to me."

"Thank you," she said softly, not sure what else could be said or how else to properly convey her gratefulness for him.

"What's troubling you?" Concern laced his voice.

"It's just the Queen," Sansa answered softly; "She was just," she paused trying to find the right word, "trying to scare me."

He adjusted his hold on her so that he could look into her eyes. "What did she say?"

"It doesn't matter," she told him. Sansa didn't want to dwell on the stories the Queen told about the Mad King killing her grandfather or uncle. Or the threats she made of the Mountain or another knight hurting Dom or worse in the Hand's Tourney.

Domeric didn't look convinced. His face creased in worry, eyes holding hers, lips pressed in a thin line.

"I'm fine now," She assured him. "I can handle any of them," she shifted in his embrace, breaking eye contact as she nestled her head against his chest, hearing his soothing heartbeat help to cleanse the fear that the Queen tried to plant in Sansa's heart.

"As long as you're with me," she murmured.

"Always, my love."

Her breath hitched in her throat, her eyes widened at his words. Had she misheard? She wondered, or worse, she thought with a small pang in her heart, had he not meant them. Sansa stirred in his arms, wanting to look at him, needing to see his face, her heartbeat quickened at the words he had spoke, a frantic beat gripped with uncertainty.

Domeric's expression seemed to take a second to catch up with what he had said. Surprise flickered across his face, his mouth opened as he realized what he just said. And then, his surprise gave way to confidence, a smile formed on his lips and when his eyes met hers, and there was no doubt in what he had said.

"I love you, my lady," he gently squeezed her in their embrace, "Now and forever."

She felt warmth course through her, her heart overfilling with happiness. Sansa returned his smile and moved her lips to meet his in a kiss that if caught by her Septa would've gotten her in quite a bit of trouble. Sansa pushed away that thought, enjoying the feel of Dom's lips on hers and the pleasing heat that filled her tummy.

Sansa smiled in satisfaction at the lingering dazed look Domeric had once their kiss had ended. Realizing that their feelings for one another had only fueled the kiss in a way that made it more enjoyable than any previous one.

Seeing her betrothed before her, Sansa knew her own feelings for him were just as true as the one he had recently confessed to her. She may have grown out of stories and songs, but the hope for love had always remained. Sansa considered herself thankful that she had found it.

"I love you too, Dom."

Her admission got his attention. It was his turn to react. He could not hide the longing look in his eyes, or the disbelief that spread over his face.

In that brief flicker of insecurity, Sansa's heart ached for him upon understanding how little he had heard or felt such a feeling from those around him. She was determined to make sure that he would always know it. She would remind him of her affection and love for him whenever she could. It would make them stronger.

His touch broke her from her musings, his hands cupped her cheeks and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I dare no more," his lips crooked into a smile, "We can only be so reckless without a chaperone."

Sansa giggled at that, and nodded her agreement. Her father allowed her some freedom in her time with Domeric, because of the trust he had for not just her, but him as well. When his hand fell from her face it sought her hand. He was still smiling and in that touch Sansa felt so happy, and so safe.

That's when she got her idea. "Come with me."

"Sansa?" His smile dipped.

"Please?"

He looked uncertain, but slowly nodded, "Very well, but we should bring two of your father's household guard to serve as chaperones."

Sansa agreed, watching him leave to fetch the guards. "Come to me, Lady," She called for her direwolf to follow. Lady was quick to rise to her feet and approach. Sansa crouched down, "I need you with me too, Lady."

Lady tilted her head, amber eyes shining in understanding.

"You and Domeric," she patted her beloved direwolf.

Lady licked her outstretched fingers and Sansa giggled at the direwolf's rough tongue tickling her palm. She affectionately scratched Lady behind her ear before standing.

"Where is it we are going, my lady?" Domeric had returned with the two Stark guards in tow. They both bowed their heads when they saw her.

"You will see," she told her betrothed before taking his offered arm to depart her room with Lady following behind and the two Stark guards trailing them.

"How was the Princess?" Domeric seemed to realize she was not going to tell him where they were going so settled on asking her about her day.

"She is well," Sansa replied, "And excited about the coming Tourney."

"I hope she enjoys it," Domeric said softly, "It may very well be her last. The north has no need for such displays of opulence and vanity."

Sansa agreed with his assessment. Frivolous spending and entertainment did not last in the north. Duty and honor endured while pride withered in the cold, unforgiving north.

"How was your training?"

"It goes well," Domeric answered, "Lord Stark and my father's men have helped me immensely."

"I'm glad," she smiled at him and he returned it. "Are you nervous?"

"No, my lady," he said, "I'm ready."

"Don't you worry about who you will have to face?" Sansa couldn't forget the Queen's casual mention of the Mountain as a potential opponent.

"I know the best fighters in the kingdoms will come," Domeric said honestly, "I trust that my skills can match any knight in the kingdoms."

She felt a sense of relief at his confidence. Hearing it certainty helped to deflate her anxiety that had been slowly building up. Sansa wanted to be supportive and she trusted him, but that did little to fight the niggling apprehension she felt worming in her tummy.

"My lady?" Domeric's words broke through her reverie.

Sansa looked around to see they had reached the end of the hallway.

"Where to?"

"This way," if she remembered right, turning left as they passed a row of dusty suits of black armor.

Domeric simply nodded to her direction and let her lead, while Lady and the Stark guards followed silently. If he knew where they were going he showed no hint of it.

"I got a letter from Arya."

"Oh?" That got Domeric's interest. "How is she?"

"Well," Sansa could only smile upon reflecting on reading her sister's messy scrawl. "She said Robb was working hard as acting Lord of Winterfell and writing poetry to the Princess." Sansa giggled at that and Domeric laughed at Arya's jape.

"Mayhaps, the Princess will let us read it?" Domeric joked.

Sansa's giggling continued at that suggestion. Imagining the Princess' red face if they teasingly inquired about the poetry her brother may have written to Myrcella.

Her sister's mischievousness knew no bounds as far as Sansa was concerned. It used to be a sore spot between them due to Sansa often being the target of it especially after one of their heated arguments, but it was different now between them. So much had changed between her and her sister in the past year and Sansa was grateful for the relationship she now had with Arya.

Her reflections on her sister were interrupted when they stopped outside large oak and bronze doors. A pair of Baratheon guards stood outside the great doors and looked at them with curiosity.

They were here, Sansa steadied herself.

"Sansa?" The concern in Domeric's voice was palpable.

"I'm fine," she gave him a reassuring look before turning to the guards on duty. "May we go in?"

"Court is adjourned for the day, my lady," The guard on the left said, "And the Small Council is no longer meeting."

"I would like to see the famous Iron Throne," Sansa lied smoothly, offering them an innocent smile.

"Very well, my lady," the one on the right said begrudgingly, "but do not linger too long."

"Thank you," Sansa felt her heart begin to beat a bit faster as the Baratheon guards moved to open the doors. This is it, she thought, tightening her hold on her betrothed's arm as she followed the long carpet that stretched out across the Great Hall.

It was cavernous. The Great Hall looked like it could easily fit a thousand people within these walls during a session of court. The once famous dragon skulls that once adorned the walls during the reign of the Targaryens had been replaced by King Robert with hunting tapestries.

She was curious where the skulls had been placed, and wondered if they were as terrifying as she thought. High, narrow windows on the eastern and western walls provided plenty of light to shine into the room. Massive chandeliers hung above them as towering stone pillars supported the room.

Straight ahead, she got her first glimpse of the legendary Iron Throne. Sansa was sure she heard Domeric's breath catch in his throat at the sight beside her. The lessons from Maester Luwin were quick to come to her as she took in the Iron Throne in front of her.

Constructed by Aegon the Conqueror, the first king to rule over six of the seven Kingdoms of Westeros, had it made from the swords of his enemies that had surrendered to him. More than a thousand blades made up the Iron Throne. It had been heated by the breath of Aegon's dragon, Balerion and took nearly sixty days to properly hammer into shape.

It was a monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges. Steel fangs and twisted metal gave it a terrifying almost beastly appearance with an equally imposing presence. It dominated the room. The raised dais it was on allowed it to loom over anything and everyone in the Great Hall. The stairs itself that led up to the seat were forged into the Throne itself, steps of melted swords that symbolized the enemies Aegon had broken and beaten that had elevated him to becoming the first King to unite six of the kingdoms of Westeros under his reign.

This truly was the seat of kings, she thought in mute awe. Sansa looked to see Domeric seemed enthralled by it, not that she was surprised. She knew how much he valued history and was certain he was probably recalling in excitement all the kings that had sat on this throne. On the history that was made in this very room.

Both good and bad, she observed. There was no telling where it happened within the Great Hall. Sansa imagined it must have been at a spot where the Mad King could get an unobstructed view from his throne.

"They died here," she whispered.

"Aye," sadness flickered across Domeric's worried face, "I know."

She turned away from his troubled gaze, her eyes falling on the empty throne. That was where he sat when he gave the order; she moved closer towards it, Sansa heard his footsteps following behind.

This is where he sat when he laughed after they were dead. She looked around the vast Great Hall, this is where they all stood and did nothing.

"Sansa," Domeric seemed to sense her discomfort, "We won't be staying here for long."

The Iron Throne forgotten, she turned to her betrothed, "What do you mean?"

Domeric didn't answer her immediately. First, he looked to see that the two Stark guards had kept a respectful distance and were standing near the entrance doors. Then, his eyes flicked over to Lady who stood with them, he looked at the direwolf as if expecting her to sniff out any other soul that may have been hiding in the Great Hall. When Lady made no move, Domeric seemed satisfied.

"Only a few months," he promised, taking her hand in his. "Then my father will call us back to seal our betrothal."

"Truly?" Sansa couldn't deny the hope that filled her heart.

He smiled. "Truly," he assured her. "Your father will escort us back to Winterfell for the wedding."

Winterfell? Ever since she departed her home for the capital, a day had not gone by that she hadn't missed it. To be told, that she would be returning sooner then she had imagined had been a tremendous gift from the Old Gods themselves.

The revelation brought a well of happiness to her. How she missed her brothers, her mother, and her sister.

"All of your family will be there," His eyes looked distant, "But not all of mine," his voice carried just a shade above a whisper.

"Dom?" Sansa frowned.

"I do not want to impose or insult you, my lady," he said quickly, "I'm just thinking of my brother."

Sansa understood at once. She knew of Domeric's bastard brother, and how he had often thought of him and wanted to form some sort of relationship with him. Knowing he was envious at seeing Robb interact with Jon and how Domeric only wanted something similar to share with his own brother, bastard or not.

"He is your family, Dom," Sansa reminded him, "And if you want him there then he should come."

"Really?" Domeric's face lit up at her words.

She smiled, pleased to see him happy, "Of course."

"Thank you," he said. "We will then go to Dreadfort," Domeric confided to her, "Where we will learn to rule and start our own family soon enough."

Our own family, Sansa couldn't deny her happiness or excitement at that enticing thought. She was not ready to be a mother, but the idea of sharing children with a husband she loved who was as kind and strong as Domeric made her look forward to that day when they did have a family. Even if she wasn't ready to be a mother, she would be lying if she said she hadn't thought about their potential children.

After all, Sansa had grown up being taught by her mother and her Septa of her responsibilities when she became a woman and a wife. Her thoughts naturally drifted to the children she may one day have. When she was still enthralled by the stories and songs of bards, she imagined giving birth to princes and princesses of the seven kingdoms.

Then she had met Domeric. And everything would change. She no longer desired go south to marry a prince, and to become a queen. Sansa understood what most songs truly were, pretty lies to mask ugly truths.

She wanted to remain in the north. To her relief and happiness her desires came true when her father betrothed her to Domeric. At that point, she couldn't stop her mind from drifting to the family they would one day have in the Dreadfort. Despite her initial hesitation at her husband's home, it couldn't drown the happiness she shared towards him. Especially when she realized, together, with him, and their family, Dreadfort would be their home.

It was not just family, she imagined, but names she thought on giving their future children. Bethany for a girl, Sansa had decided in honor of Domeric's mother who had meant so much to him. Edric for a boy, she wanted the name to serve as a tribute to the two men whom she loved and respected so much; her father, Lord Eddard and her betrothed Domeric. She was hopeful, he would be agreeable with those names.

"Does this please you, my lady?" Domeric's words broke her out of her musings on her future family.

"They do," she beamed, "There is nothing I want more."

"Aye," Domeric said, "We will go home soon enough, my love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates should come more quickly now that the majority of the rewrites for this story are over. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and to those who drop a kudos. 
> 
> Also please don't forget to comment. It means a lot to get your feedback.
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	19. Jon

You're here for life, same as the rest of us.

Those were Donal Noye's words to him. That was his advice. Jon had bested those recruits during their training and the old smith made those victories seem worthless.

It wasn't his fault he trained in Winterfell with Ser Rodrik, sparring with Robb and Domeric. They never seemed to care that he beat them. That a bastard bested them, Jon corrected himself. The future Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and the Lord of the Dreadfort, and he beat both them in their bouts.

Robb would get frustrated, but it was never directed at Jon, it was always at himself. Robb would get this look and demand a rematch. Sometimes he would win and he'd be satisfied, and other times he'd lose. After the defeats he'd sigh, shoot Jon an annoyed look before smiling and saying, next time I'll beat you.

Domeric on the other hand would just chuckle and shrug, admit his defeat, but not before challenging Jon to jousting. Jon had always declined. He had seen the heir of the Dreadfort ride and didn't like his chances.

Except the one time, he remembered. Confidence pumping through him after he beat Domeric, and like always he made the offer and Jon accepted. He would never forget the smile that came to Domeric's face when Jon had acquiesced to his playful challenge. A decision Jon would never forget.

He absentmindedly rubbed his side, a bruise that had long since healed. Jon could still remember the force behind the strike and how it had taken Jon clean off his horse and onto the ground. Jon wasn't certain then what had hurt more the fall or the blow. He could still remember after Robb and Ser Rodrik, it had been Domeric who had been the quickest to make sure he was alright, a worried look on his face.

These recruits weren't like them. They didn't laugh once Jon bested them. They cursed and shouted. They were bitter. Jon had beaten them fairly. He didn't rub their noses in it, but he wasn't going to stop not feeling good about himself because he bested them. He deserved that feeling. Jon fought hard for it.

He kicked some snow in frustration. He watched silently the puffs of mist and flakes swirl around his feet.

They were right, he thought sullenly. They told him not to come. He could still remember his conversation with Domeric who had given Jon an alternative.

"I'm offering you a choice," Domeric had said simply.

"It's a charity," Jon shot back.

"I wouldn't offer it if you weren't qualified," Domeric looked offended at the suggestion. "Your loyalty and your skills would make you invaluable at the Dreadfort."

"I can make my own way," Jon replied tersely.

Captain of the guards, that was the offer Domeric had given him. A newly formed group of guards that he wanted Jon to personally oversee. With the promise that after awhile he would be promoted and could one day find himself the castellan of the Dreadfort itself.

A title of both power and respect, it would've fallen on Jon to command the castle defenses in the act of a siege or an attack. They'd also be relied on to offer the lord wise council and to help train the garrison as well as any children of the lord. A job not given to the weak or unqualified and it could've been his.

He thought he could make his own way. Go to the Wall, serve in the Watch. Where they wouldn't care who your mother or who your father was. In the Watch it was suppose to be merit not blood that would get you elevated through the ranks and the respect of your brothers.

All lies, he thought bitterly. They never let him forget who he was here.

They can keep their brothers, he didn't want them. He had his own brothers, Robb, Rickon, and Bran. He paused at the mention of Bran. There had been no word from Robb about Bran waking up.

He will wake up, Robb had vowed with steely determination. That had been at the gates of Winterfell the day Jon had left for the Wall.

Aye, Jon had agreed. You Starks are hard to kill. A jest to lighten the pain that both brothers were feeling. It had worked. They had both chuckled at it, and both knew that Bran would pull through.

I left them all the same, he thought morosely. He couldn't take the looks from Lady Stark. He thought he hadn't belonged there, but now here at the Wall, he'd almost prefer the sullen treatment of Lady Stark. At least her cold stares were only occasional. Her displeasure carefully dispensed at various intervals. She for the most part did her best to ignore him.

Here, their taunts never ended. They made sure he knew how they felt about him. They hated him. They mocked him.

Lord Snow, they sneered at him.

He let loose a long tired breath watching it puff out before him. His eyes then drifted to see the Wall looming over him from where he stood in front of the armory. He could remember the lessons Maester Luwin had given him when he was younger about the Wall and the Night's Watch.

Seven hundred feet tall, the maester had emphasized that fact to try to get them to understand what a feat that was. Yet, reading about something seven hundred feet tall doesn't compare to seeing it. It was an overwhelming presence yet there was a subtlety to its appearance. There were days in the yard when he trained or went for his meals that he'd forget about it. But all he had to do was look up and see it towering over him, Castle Black and everything around it as it stretched east to west.

Staring up at it for too long made him dizzy. A cold, twisted feeling coiled itself around his gut at the thought of that great wall of ice pressing down on him.

"Better then the books!"

Jon looked away suddenly from the Wall and towards the direction of the familiar voice. It was Tyrion Lannister, bundled up in thick, dark furs. It was the first time Jon could remember seeing the Queen's brother not dressed in the colors of his house, and he told him as much.

"Better to be warm and alive," Tyrion smiled, "Then a corpse who chose style over practicality."

Jon found himself chuckling. He couldn't believe he was admitting it, but he missed Lord Tyrion's presence. He had hardly seen him since their journey ended when they arrived at the Wall together. Tyrion was an honored guest of the Watch and Jon was just a lowly new recruit.

"It makes you wonder what else is on the other side," Tyrion's mismatched eyes went up towards the Wall in front of them, "Perhaps grumkins and snarks, Lord Snow."

"Don't call me that." Jon wasn't smiling anymore. He felt his fists clenching at his side. Anger was bubbling up in his gut. He could see all their faces, hear their whispers in the common hall.

"Lord Snow?" Tyrion repeated, "Would you rather be called the Imp?" He challenged. "Let them see their words can cut you and you'll never be free of the mockery. If they want to give you a name, take it, make it your own. Then they can't hurt you with it anymore."

He saw wisdom in Lord Tyrion's words, but in his wounded pride, he wouldn't voice it. He was still annoyed and bothered by it all the same. The men of the Watch hardly let up in their insults. Only in the presence of his uncle, did they settle for glares and whispers to communicate their dislike for him.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. This isn't what he thought would happen when he made his choice.

"I don't see your wolf," Lannister broke through his thoughts.

"He's chained in the old stables," Jon answered, "Only allowed free when I bring him to my room for the night."

Because of what happened, he thought morosely. It had been an accident. Ghost had proven his namesake when he had spooked the horse his uncle, Benjen had been riding and had thrown him from it. Uncle Benjen had hurt his arm badly by the fall, and was now stuck at Castle Black and unable to go on his planned ranging. Maester Aemon had said, his arm would heal, but it would take time and rest.

"How long do you plan on staying?" Jon didn't want to dwell on his uncle's fall.

"A few more days."

"Will you be riding to Winterfell for your return trip?" Jon couldn't stop himself from asking.

"Most likely," Tyrion's mismatched eyes were on him, "Second thoughts, Snow?"

There was no malice or teasing in his question just curiosity.

Jon turned away from him, eyes going back to the Wall. He felt the stubborn lump in his throat, but that wouldn't stop him from admitting his slip, "Aye."

"Better to admit to a mistake and correct it, than just live with it."

Jon nodded, "Thank you."

"Though won't your problem still be waiting for you if you return to Winterfell," Lord Tyrion observed delicately.

Problem was a nice, polite way of describing Lady Stark. With his Father in the south, he wasn't certain he could dwell in Winterfell under the same roof as her. That had been one of his reasons that had caused him to hastily enlist to join the Watch.

"I may have a solution," Tyrion proposed.

That had caught him off guard, "What sort of solution?" he asked, unable to keep the suspicion out of his tone.

If Lord Tyrion picked up on it, he didn't seem to mind. "You could travel with me."

"You?" Jon repeated, hoping he didn't come across as insulting to Lord Tyrion. He was more surprised at the offer then anything.

"I'll have you know that I'm great company," Tyrion scolded him in mock outrage before sending a still confused Jon a wink to show he wasn't offended.

"But I'm a bastard," Jon mumbled.

"And I'm a dwarf!" Tyrion pointed to himself, "A bastard and a dwarf traveling together: A tale for the bards!" He threw back his head to bark out a laugh. A puff of air billowed out.

"You're still a high born," Jon pointed out weakly. Unable to shake the idea from his mind, he couldn't lie, it did sound appealing. It would get him away from the Wall and Winterfell, and allow him to travel the kingdoms, but it would provide him the freedom to visit his family. Something, he could not have if he remained here.

"I spend my time with whores and thieves," Tyrion deflected Jon's point with a wave of his hand, "Or that is what my beloved family would have you believe." His mismatched eyes were fixed on him, "You'd be the most honorable traveling companion I've had for quite some time." His lips curved, a mischievous glint could be seen just behind his eyes. "Besides, perhaps if I introduce you to some of my friends, you'll realize what you'll be missing if you join the Watch."

Jon squirmed in his boots at what Lord Tyrion was implying. He couldn't help it. He was shy around girls, unlike Robb or Theon. Part of his hesitance to bed a girl let alone be with one was his decision that he would not force his status on another: Woman or child. "I won't father a bastard."

"A good, expensive whore knows how not to be become pregnant," Tyrion countered.

Could this be it? He thought, the opportunity he had been waiting for? A chance to get out of his brother's shadow, out of Lady Stark's sight, but also provide him a better alternative then the Watch: A chance to see the rest of Westeros.

"The more I think about this the more I think this may be one of my best ideas yet!" Tyrion proclaimed, "And that's saying something."

"You'd take me with you?" Jon still couldn't believe it. It just didn't seem real.

"Yes," Tyrion confirmed, "I like you. You are a bright young man, a bit naïve, but that can be remedied with copious amounts of wine and whores," he flashed him a smile. "I could use the company. I've seen you train. You're not bad with a sword and you're direwolf would make for a wonderful addition."

"Come with me," Tyrion offered, "see what else is out there," he waddled over towards him, "and if you're not satisfied or able to find what you want." He stopped when he reached him. "Then you can always come back here." He pointed to the Wall that loomed behind them, "This isn't going anywhere."

He was right, Jon couldn't argue. He could always return if he didn't find what he was looking for in the south.

"Tell me truly, Jon Snow," Tyrion's voice had become serious, "Wouldn't you like to go to your sister's wedding to Lord Domeric? Or visit your siblings when they're older and have their own children?" His expression softened, "Once you take your vows to the Watch, you give up your freedom to come and go as you please."

Lord Tyrion's words stirred a recent memory Jon had had with his Father. The day he rode to the capital and Jon to the Wall.

Next time we see each other we'll talk about your mother, I promise.

Jon frowned. What was he to do with that information if he was a member of the Night's Watch? What if she was alive? He wouldn't be able to seek her out. He'd be bound by his vows. Could he really stay at the Wall if there was even a chance his mother was alive and out there?

The memory of his father brought with it a sudden realization. "You're going to the capital."

"I am."

He knew he wouldn't be welcomed at court. The bastard of the Hand of the King, he'd be a stain on the honor of his Father's house and that of Lady Stark. Once more, he found himself being suffocated by the trappings of being a Snow.

"I'm not sure my presence in the capital would be welcomed," Jon tasted disappointment in his mouth as he said the words. In that brief moment, he thought he had found a solution to his problem. Only for it to be dashed because of his status.

"You know I believe there may be more bastards in King's Landing then true borns," Tyrion pointed out lightly. "And there is plenty of Westeros to see from here to the capital." He wasn't making it easy. "Besides with my family's coin sponsoring us I could be persuaded to travel elsewhere after a brief stay in King's Landing. I hear Oldtown is delightful. "

"I'll think on it," Jon owed him that much, and was surprised by his insistence to try to include him and to get him to leave the Wall. "I'm thankful by the offer."

"I understand, it's not every day such a generous offer is received," Lord Tyrion smiled. "You need time to recover."

\--------------

"You shouldn't have said that," Uncle Benjen led him out of the common hall.

Jon could still hear the laughter even as they moved further and further away from it. He's been at Castle Black long enough to know his uncle was taking him to the library.

The laughter had been his doing. A jape he had made in response to one of Ser Alliser's insults. All his life, he took the snickers and stares in silence. He ignored them. Those that came from Lady Stark he could do nothing. And when he arrived at the Wall, he received his share of them especially from the Castle Black's Master-at-arms, Ser Alliser.

He was tired of ignoring them. So he followed Lord Tyrion's advice and took the joke with a smile before delivering his own at Ser Alliser's expense. It went over well with everyone except Ser Alliser. With that joke, Jon understood there would be nothing between him and the Master-at-arms except bad blood and that if he took his vows and became a member of the Night's Watch, he'd count Ser Alliser as an enemy for the rest of his days on the Wall.

"It was a joke, Uncle," Jon weakly defended.

"You shamed him in front of his brothers and the recruits," Benjen closed the door to the library before facing him. Disappointment was etched on his long face, while his stern blue eyes looked him over.

"He's a bully," Jon found himself saying. He wasn't going to feel pity for a man who spent his time tormenting recruits and humiliating them for his own pleasure.

"He's tasked with an unenviable job," Uncle Benjen defended, "to make boys into men so that they can survive the Wall."

Jon was unable to look his uncle in the eye. So he fixed his stare above his uncle's right shoulder, focusing on the tall bookcase against the wall that towered over both of them. Filled with tomes and books and covered by a layer of dust that only thickened the higher up the shelves were.

"You undermined Ser Alliser's authority," Uncle Benjen continued on with his lecture, "Hard enough to get these boys and criminals to listen without you having to make him look weak in front of the others."

It was upon listening to his Uncle's lecture did Jon silently realize that this was the longest conversation he had with him since he came to the Wall with him. He had been spending his time with the other officers of the Watch, and his sore arm that hung loosely in a sling had seemed to make him more irritable then anytime Jon could ever remember.

"When you take your vows, he'll be your brother, Jon."

"No," Jon said sharply before he could stop himself. He wouldn't call that man a brother.

"The men of the Watch are a sworn brotherhood," Benjen reminded him. "I love my family," a look of pain flickered across his face, "but these men are my true brothers now."

True brothers? Jon repeated the words and found that he didn't like the taste. These bullies and criminals were not his brothers. He wouldn't call them that and he wasn't going to call this place home.

"You knew about this place," Jon murmured, unable to stem the anger from churning in his gut. "F-Father knew about this place too, and still he let me come here." He clenched his fists at his side. "He didn't try to stop me," Jon felt wetness prickle at his eyes. He didn't finish his thought out loud not wanting to confirm why his father made no effort to persuade him not to come.

"Aye," Benjen sighed, "but I did caution you to stay."

"At Winterfell?" Jon wanted to scoff, "With Lady Stark?" He shook his head in anger, his uncle should've known better! He always had a soft spot for Jon, ever since he could remember his uncle had always treated him kindly during his visits to Winterfell. He had treated him no differently than any of his other siblings.

Jon would've thought that his uncle would've told him true about the Wall and the Watch when others wouldn't, but Benjen didn't. He told him to wait not because of what was there but because of his age. It had been a stranger and a Lannister who had been the only one to tell him what life really was at the Wall and with the Watch. Only Lord Tyrion had told him truly, and he also offered Jon his way out so that he wouldn't have to suffer the same cold treatment whether here or at Winterfell.

"I won't call you brother, Uncle," Jon had made his decision. "Lord Tyrion made me an offer and I plan to accept it."

\-----------------

"Your uncle tells me you're leaving."

Lord Commander Mormont was an imposing man. Jon had seen glimpses of him from a distance but now standing before him in his chambers, he could understand why Jeor Mormont had risen through the ranks of the Night's Watch so quickly that saw him ascend to the title of Lord Commander in less than ten years.

He stood tall and proud, only a few strands of grey hair rested atop his head. While his face was covered in a thick, shaggy grey beard. His eyes dark and hard looked over Jon silently, lips pursed together beneath his beard.

"Corn!" The Lord Commander's raven cawed.

Interrupting Jon's thoughts and turning Mormont's attention to his bird. He took that moment to turn to his Uncle, who stood to the side, arm still hanging loosely in a sling as he gave Jon an encouraging nod, but a faint smile tugged at his lips as if he was amused by Jon's discomfort by standing in the presence of the Lord Commander.

"Aye," Jon found himself instinctively straightening up when the Lord Commander returned his attention to him.

"Pity," Lord Commander Mormont said gruffly. "You would have made a fine addition to the Night's Watch."

"You honor me, Lord Commander," Jon bowed his head. He hadn't expected Mormont to have taken any notice of him. He was a bastard and a lowly recruit in the short weeks he had been here.

"But not enough for you to stay," Mormont pointed out.

His mind went blank at the Lord Commander's word's not wanting to insult him. He raised his head to offer an apology only to notice that the old bear had been smiling.

"Just a jape," Mormont clapped him on the back-hard. "I heard you're familiar with those."

Jon shifted uncomfortably at the reminder of his incident with Ser Alliser.

"You're traveling with Lord Tyrion?"

"Yes, Lord Commander."

"Such a pity," Mormont shook his head. "You have a place here, Snow." He told him. "You could've made a difference here on the Wall and with the Watch."

Was this why his uncle wanted him to speak with the Lord Commander? Jon couldn't help but wonder, A last attempt to get him to change his mind? He shook away that thought, knowing his uncle had supported his decision.

"A steward," Mormont said abruptly. His eyes were on Jon. "That's where you would've gone."

Jon tried to hide his surprise and disappointment by that sudden declaration. It seemed he had made the right choice by going with Lord Tyrion. He had no interest in being a steward. He wanted to be a ranger like his uncle.

"No?" Mormont saw his disappointment. "Don't want to be a steward? No glory in that, Snow?"

Jon kept quiet. He didn't want to upset the Lord Commander any further.

"I understand wanting to see the rest of the world," Mormont mused, "So I do not begrudge you that." His eyes looked him over before turning to his bird which was demanding more corn. "You're still young. It's right to experience the world before you make your vows." He tossed some corn at his raven.

"I left for the Watch when I had a son full grown ready to rule our seat." His mouth twisted, "Or so I thought." He moved across his chambers to where he kept his family's valyrian steel bastard sword, Longclaw. "At least he had the honor and sense to return it." His fingers resting on the bear head pommel. "A lasting reminder of what he did and the shame he brought to our family."

His eyes moved back to Jon and a smirk curved from his lips. "I have something for you, Snow." Mormont grabbed the bastard sword and moved towards Jon, presenting Longclaw to him.

"Lord Commander?" Jon was stunned. He looked down at the sight of the valyrian steel sword in Mormont's hands. He snuck a glance at his uncle to see the First Ranger too looked surprised by the Lord Commander's sudden move.

"Take it," he said gruffly. "As a promise,"

"A promise?" Jon still made no move to take it.

"Yes," Mormont's tone cracked, signaling that his patience was waning. "That you will return to the Wall after you've gotten your share of the rest of the world."

Jon moved his attention from the sword that Mormont was holding to the Lord Commander himself to see he was the center of the man's the steely gaze, "To join the Watch?" Understanding crept into his mind, replacing his awe at the gesture to understand the bold cunning that the old bear was employing.

"To consider it," Mormont corrected him. "The Watch could use men like you."

"I have no claim to it," Jon said numbly, just like a great number of things. He thought bitterly.

"Of course not, boy," Mormont scoffed, sounding more amused than annoyed. "You'll take it, you'll need it and then you'll return it with some experience, and then hopefully join us."

"That could be years," Uncle Benjen pointed out.

"I'm patient," Mormont waved away his first ranger's observation like a bothersome gnat. "Besides I'll get little use out of it." He looked down at the sword that Jon still hadn't taken. "It'll do for you: a bastard sword for a bastard." He barked out a laugh at that.

"Now take it," He all but pushed the sword into Jon's hands, who took it hesitantly.

Jon held it in his hands. "I don't know what to say." He still couldn't believe it.

"That you accept," Mormont told him gruffly.

"Aye," Jon's eyes remained on Longclaw. "I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Certain passages from this chapter came directly or near directly from Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin. He is the author of that book and the series 'A Song of Ice and Fire.' He is the creator and the master. It is his. I own nothing, I'm just having some fun in this wonderful world he created
> 
> Thanks for reading, and to those who drop a kudos.
> 
> Also please don't forget to comment. It means a lot to get your feedback.
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	20. Arya

Bear Island was no Winterfell.

In the two plus weeks since Arya arrived to Mormont Keep, she still found herself missing her family and her home. That's not to say that she wasn't enjoying her time with the Mormonts because she was, but she couldn't ignore the twinge of pain that coiled itself around her tummy whenever she let her thoughts drift to those she missed.

I'm not alone. She had Nymeria, her loyal and beloved direwolf, who was constantly at her side. As well as Lady Maege's daughters who treated her well and were friendly. Though, there was some awkwardness too. It was clear her family was highly regarded by House Mormont, causing Lady Maege's daughters to be more cordial than Arya would have liked.

Arya felt pressured to live up to the lofty expectations House Mormont had on her family. She found herself having to use her courtesies more then she would have liked. She even curtsied! Arya didn't come to Bear Island to do that. She came to fight.

Sometimes she felt more like Sansa than herself. She loved her sister dearly. Arya found herself missing her as much as her brothers, but she wasn't Sansa. She was Arya. She was her own person and she felt like she was disappearing at times in trying to be so polite and polished while she stayed at Mormont Keep.

It was very frustrating for Arya, but somehow she knew if her father was here and she told her these concerns, he would chuckle. That's a part of growing up; he would tell her with a smile.

"Are you bored, Pup?"

Arya blinked.

Pup, that's what Lady Mormont and her daughter Alysane had called Arya since she arrived. A pup amongst bear cubs, Maege Mormont had declared. Arya liked the name. She was a direwolf, a pup now but soon she'd be grown and she'd show her teeth to any enemy of her family.

"No," Arya answered quickly, but yes I am, she added silently.

She would not tell her the truth. Arya had made a promise to her parents to do her best in all of her lessons when they agreed for her to foster here and that sadly included needlework. She looked down at said needlework to see it was crooked. She suppressed a frown that she wanted to level at it and instead moved her attention to her teacher, Lady Maege Mormont herself.

It had been odd at first to see the fierce warrior and Lady of Bear Island sitting in a chair and nimbly working on needlework. Even inside the Keep, she often chose armor. There she sat across from Arya, in patched ringmail, her spiked mace dangled loosely from its holster.

She wasn't alone. Sitting to Maege's left was her youngest daughter, Lyanna. She was about a year younger than Arya. She was named after Arya's Aunt who had died in Robert's Rebellion. Father didn't speak about her and he always seemed sad when her name was brought up.

Arya had often heard similarities between herself and her famous aunt. She wanted to believe them, but in those stories, her aunt Lyanna was described as beautiful. So beautiful that it started a war that would end up ending the Targaryen dynasty. And Arya wasn't beautiful. She was just Arya horseface remembering the name that Jeyne Poole had given her. She didn't hear it as often since her sister Sansa had scolded Jeyne for the name, but it still stung when she thought about it.

Lyanna Mormont's hair was long and dark, carefully braided so that it wouldn't fall over her equally dark eyes. She had put her needlework in her lap and looked at Arya inquisitively. She wasn't wearing a dress, but dark breeches and a green tunic which had a black Mormont bear stitched into the front.

To Maege's right was her second youngest daughter, Jorelle, affectionately called Jory by her sisters and mother. She was younger than Sansa, but older then Arya. She was tall for her age and slender, her hair light brown was cut short to fall just over her shoulders. She was wearing a green dress with fur trimmings with the Mormont bear being proudly emblazoned.

To Arya's surprise, Maege's daughters excelled in needlework. She felt like she found herself back in her lessons with Septa Mordane, Jeyne Poole, and her sister. She had hated those lessons, the Septa, Jeyne, and even her sister for a time. That had been before she and Sansa had grown closer.

Maege Mormont hadn't been fooled by Arya's answer. A toothy grin slowly spread across her weathered face. "You don't understand, pup."

"I'm not surprised," Maege put down her work. "You were taught by a Septa?"

"I was," Arya did her best to hide her distaste for Septa Mordane. There were no Septs on Bear Island which meant there were no Septas. Something that Arya had been thankful for.

"Who wanted you be a lady of the south?" A mocking edge tinted her tone.

"She did," Arya answered, "But I'm not." She declared proudly.

"No, you're not," Maege Mormont agreed happily. "Yet, in the north we have use for needles." She stood from her seat with ease.

Or needle, Arya wanted to point out, referring to the gift her brother, Jon had given her before he left for the Wall, but she remained quiet. Confused and curious with what Lady Maege Mormont was planning. She turned to Lady Mormont's daughters, Lyanna and Jory, but neither girl spoke, they too were looking at their mother with interest.

Maege Mormont then carefully removed her patched ringmail to show she was wearing a simply wooly tunic. "Stitches aren't just for cloth." She then rolled up her sleeve to reveal tan skin marred by a number of scars and bruises in different states of healing.

Arya couldn't look away. She found herself transfixed upon seeing small and large bruises of varying colors that were splotched up and down Lady Mormont's arm. Or the long, twisted scars that slithered and twined from her hand to her forearm and even some reaching her shoulder.

"This!" Maege pointed to one said scar. A small, curving wound that was halfway between her hand and her forearm. "Do you see?"

Arya frowned. Unsure what the Lady of Bear Island was referring to. Looking closer at the scar, she noticed that it seemed an older one, having healed and faded, but that was then she noticed it. "Stitches," she murmured.

"That's right." Maege Mormont nodded, "Sewing cloth isn't the same as flesh, but the skills are similar and when properly taught can save yours or a friend's life when you're out there." Her gaze hardened, deep in thought. "I got this one in one of the many skirmishes with some particularly nasty wildlings, five years back."

"Or this one," She was now pointing to a scar that started at her elbow and nearly slithered up to her shoulder. "This one bled quite a bit." A snort of amusement escaped her, "bloody difficult it was." She slapped the scar with her calloused hand, "but the stitches saved me from bleeding out."

Her dark eyes then found Arya's. "You get it now, pup?"

"I do," Arya looked down at her crooked stitches.

"When you're better with those needles," she pointed to Arya's embroidery, "I'll show you that they can do more than sew pretty southern dresses of silk and lace."

"I'll do better," Arya picked up her needles with renewed interest, and went to work. She didn't notice the proud smile that came to Maege Mormont's face.

"That's a good, pup."

\---------------

"Nice strike, Lyanna."

Arya hissed in pain from said hit.

"You almost had me."

"Thanks," Arya muttered turning to her sparring partner, Lyanna Mormont. She was dressed in battle leathers with the Mormont sigil emblazoned on the chest: a black bear over a green wood. In one hand she held a blunted sword and in the other, she carried a shield that too was stamped with House Mormont's sigil. Lyanna may have been younger in Arya but she was well trained. She had told Arya that she had started training when she was old enough to hold a toy axe.

Arya was sorer from losing then the bruise that was forming on her arm. She was certain she had Lyanna that time, but the youngest daughter of Lady Maege Mormont had bested her once more. She let loose a tired breath and used the brief break in their training to scan around the crowded training yard of Mormont Keep.

Arya looked around to see the Mormont guards, men and women were going through their training routine being watched closely by Dacey's younger sister, Alysane. She was a short, stout woman with muscled arms and heavily calloused hands, her hair dark and kept short. She was younger then Dacey but already a mother of two, a daughter of nine and a son of two who were both currently within the Keep with Lady Maege Mormont.

Lyra Mormont, the next oldest daughter of Lady Maege Mormont who was of age between Robb and Sansa, was training alongside her other sister, Alysane. She was short and quick on her feet as she moved deftly against her opponents with her two axes. She had squired with Dacey when she was younger, but now served the family as a scout. Lyra helped to patrol the nearby woods and coast on the lookout for any signs of Iron Born or wildlings threats.

Away from the scouts and guards was Jorelle Mormont. And unlike her older sisters, she favored the bow over axe. She had plaited her hair to allow it to fall over her shoulder. In one fluid motion, she put an arrow to her bow, aimed, and let it loose. It sailed across the yard before finding its mark near dead center, where the arrow had joined several other arrows already embedded around and on the center.

Not to be outdone, Arya spotted her direwolf, Nymeria. When Arya first started her practicing in the training yard, her direwolf would sit and watch, but Nymeria grew bored and restless quickly. Wanting to join Arya in her lessons and trying to playfully fight with her and the others. Amused by the direwolf's antics, Lady Mormont had instructed some practice dummies be made so that the direwolf too could sharpen her skills. Nymeria took to them effortlessly, pouncing and attacking them, tearing apart their straw stuffed limbs or gnawing on the wooden poles that made up the dummies' arms and legs.

It was a sight to see. A fearsome direwolf such as Nymeria, who was only growing to see what it was capable of as it attacked those dummies. On more than one occasion it had distracted the guards from their training. Several had even questioned the wisdom in letting Nymeria loose even if it was on practice dummies. Lady Mormont had told them simply that a content direwolf was safer than a wary one, and better to try to train it then letting its wild instincts assert full control.

"Arya," Dacey's voice cut through her thoughts.

She turned to the Heir of Bear Island, "Are you ready to go again?"

"I am," Arya straightened up, raising her sword and then her shield towards her opponent.

"Good," a ghost of a smile appeared on Dacey's lips before she turned to her youngest sister, "Lyanna?"

"Ready," Lyanna told her sister.

"Then begin."

Arya was ready this time. Blocking Lyanna's first strike with her shield, she then moved in with her blunted sword for a swift jab, but Lyanna brought her shield to down to deflect the hit. Lyanna moved forward, sword poised and thrust towards Arya's weak side, but she saw the move coming and nimbly avoided the hit by sidestepping it. She then brought her shield down on the exposed sword, slamming it down as Lyanna grunted in pain from the hit.

Arya moved forward with her sword to finish the fight, but Lyanna recovered and was quick enough to raise her shield to absorb the hit. Bringing her sword back up, for a low cutting swipe to force Arya to back up which she did begrudgingly. Seizing the momentum, Lyanna moved forward and let loose a series of thrusts and stabs that had Arya reeling backwards, swatting them away with either sword or shield, careful to keep her balance even though she was unable to see where her feet were taking her.

When Lyanna lunged with her sword hoping to catch her unaware Arya spun away from her. Seeing Lyanna's awkward footing, Arya slammed forward with her shield, barreling into Lyanna's side and bringing the girl down to the ground in a heap and a grunt.

"Nice move, Arya." Dacey called from her position.

Instead of responding to that hard earned praise, Arya was quick to crouch down to check on Lyanna. "Are you hurt?" Arya bit her lip. She hadn't meant to hit her so hard. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Lyanna got to her knees. "That was a good hit!"

"Thanks," Arya held out her hand for her.

Lyanna took the offered hand getting back to her feet. "But next time I'll have you."

"We'll see," Arya smiled.

"You two ready?" Dacey called their attention to her.

Arya turned to Lyanna to see her smiling back at her before nodding, "We are."

"Good," Dacey smiled at them, "Then go again."

\------------------

The high table in Mormont's Keep often sat empty on its raised dais. Lady Mormont had introduced having her and her family often take their meals with their scouts and guards at the other tables. There wasn't much on Bear Island, but what they had, they shared equally. The hall was much smaller than Winterfell's. Hearths were carved into the wooden walls, while a few standing braziers offered more warmth and light to combat the cold, coastal winds.

Arya spotted Maege Mormont sitting with two of her guards; the Lady of Bear Island had slapped one of them on the back, laughing at the jape he had just told her. The maester of Bear Island, a thin, pale man sat awkwardly a few seats away from Lady Mormont, nursing his drink. Sitting near the Bear Island maester was Dacey. The heir to Bear Island looked solemn focusing on her food while two of her guards were conversing back and forth between her.

Lyra Mormont was sitting at a different table with the rest of her scouts. They were talking and eating their food while Lyra polished her axes. She would occasionally raise her head and say something, the last time she did it, it must've been a joke since a ripple of laughter came from it up and down the table. Arya remembered Lyanna telling her that Lyra and the others were going on a long patrol and were leaving in the morning.

Alysane Mormont was arm wrestling a large burly man at her table with her two year old son sitting on her lap, while she was holding her own against the bigger man. She was laughing and seemed more amused than concerned with the contest. A small crowd had gathered around, conversing and placing bets. When she slammed her opponent's arm down, a loud cheer went up from the onlookers. Holding onto her son with one arm, she used her now free hand to finish her tankard of ale before slamming it down and asking for another while the crowd congratulated her.

Arya found her seat at a small table by one of the hearths. Lyanna was already sitting there as was Jory. They both smiled and welcomed her. She slid into her seat while Nymeria curled up beneath her feet. Arya had found herself closest to the two youngest Mormont daughters. She would usually take her meals with them.

She liked Lyanna because she too enjoyed fighting and didn't like wearing dresses, preferred boots and breeches and playing in the mud then stitches. She wasn't impressed with southern songs or styles and was proud to be a Mormont and a fighter.

Jory, who was softer then her other sisters, and did not mind wearing dresses, was still equally fierce. Arya knew what a great marksman she was, and had also seen the knife, Jory kept strapped to her leg that was concealed by the dresses she usually wore.

Even though it was smaller than Winterfell's great hall, Arya liked the Mormont's because of the elaborate carvings etched into the wooden walls. On the wall directly across from Arya was of a large bear wrestling and winning against a kraken, a reminder of the constant struggle between Bear Island and the Iron Islands.

To the wall to her left was that of a wolf sitting alone atop a hill, to signal House Stark's dominion over the north, below the wolf, Arya spotted several different sigils, including a bear with its head bowed for House Mormont, a mermen for house Manderly, a giant for House Umber, a moose for House Hornwood, a horse for House Ryswell, a lizard lion for House Reed, among others.

Above the main hearth of the great hall, etched into the wall were House Mormont's words, Here we Stand. Above the words was of a proud bear standing tall.

"Thank you," Arya smiled to the servant who brought her dinner, the young man bowed before heading back to the kitchens. She looked down at her plate to see baked venison seasoned with salt and pepper. It was served with a bowl of hot broth, freshly caught and cut up fish, and a side roll.

Arya had learned quickly in her stay the limited variety of food offered at Bear Island. The land was rocky and wasn't ideal for farming. Much of the diet on the Island came from game and fishing with additional soups and broths that helped to stem off the cold climate. As well as the rare vegetables that could grow and survive in the harsh lands on the island. Or what they could get in trade when merchants braved the Bay where they had to be careful for not just the weather but raiding Iron Born or fleeing Wildlings.

Taking a bite of venison, and liking the taste, Arya noticed Dacey remained sour while the men and women around her talked animatedly. "What's wrong with Dacey?"

"The maester," Lyanna hissed.

Arya frowned. She scanned further down Dacey's table to see Maester Mathis taking small bites of his fish. "What do ya mean?"

"He thinks it's his duty to make sure all us Mormont women are properly married," Jorelle rolled her eyes at the explanation.

"All he does is feed his ravens and propose betrothals to Ma," Lyanna observed bitterly.

"Remember when he tried to arrange one between Dacey and one of the Iron Born houses?" Jory grinned.

Lyanna giggled, bobbing her head up and down. "Ma nearly introduced Mathis to her mace." That sent both girls into further giggling at their mother's outrage at the maester's foolish suggestion.

"Iron Born?" Arya didn't get it. "Like Theon?"

"That's who he suggested," Jorelle had stopped giggling. She then straightened up, her eyes squinting and her brows furrowed as if trying to mimic Maester Mathis, "Since he was fostered by Lord Stark it could be a good match for our houses and bring peace to the Bay of Seals."

"Couldn't it be?" Arya asked tentatively. She knew Theon could be annoying and often was especially with those stupid smirks, but still, he was good sort, she thought. When he wasn't whoring or being a right prick.

"Theon's not that bad." Arya found herself saying in a poor attempt to defend her brother's friend and father's ward. She only hoped Theon never found out that she defended him. She'd never hear the end of it, or the smirks.

In that minute, she found herself missing the heir of the Iron Islands who was back at Winterfell with her brothers, Robb, Rickon, and Bran. She took a big sip of her warm cider hoping it would dull the ache that seemed to have stirred in her tummy.

"Iron Born," Lyanna spat, "Have raided and reaved our lands for centuries." The girl who was only a year younger looked furious at the idea of one of her older sisters having to marry an Iron Born.

"Some memories aren't easily forgotten, Lady Arya." Jorelle put a calming hand on her sister's arm to smother her outrage, "Some scars won't heal."

"Oh," Arya looked down at her venison, and went about cutting up another piece, "I'm sorry," she still didn't look up at the Mormont sisters, hoping they'd understand her confusion and weren't mad that she may have accidentally insulted them.

"You didn't know Lady Arya," Jorelle gently said.

"It's just Arya," she looked up, "Please?"

"Okay," Lyanna relented, her lips then tugged into a smirk, "just Arya."

This sent all three of the girls into a fit of laughing as Arya rolled her eyes, but silently thankful for the change in tone after her accidentally darkening the mood by bringing up the sore subject of the Iron Born.

"That reminds me, Ma agreed to a match for me," Jorelle's words were spoken once the laughter had subsided.

"What?" Lyanna spun around in her seat to face her older sister. "Why didn't you tell me, Jory?"

"I just found out this morning," Jorelle held up her hands in a placating gesture.

Lyanna looked put out by this. "Oh Jory," she sniffed, quickly rubbing her eyes with the back of her arm.

"It'll be alright, Lyanna," Jorelle took her younger sister's hands in hers. "It won't be for some time."

"Who?" Lyanna asked softly.

"Cley Cerwyn," Jorelle answered.

Arya perked up at the name. "You'll be close to Winterfell." Cerwyn's Castle was only half a day's ride from Winterfell. Father always had nice things to say about Lord Cerwyn and according to Maester Luwin, House Cerwyn was one of the stronger northern houses.

"You won't always be at Winterfell, Arya," Jorelle delicately pointed out.

Arya didn't need that reminder. She knew once she returned from Bear Island that her parents had plans on sending her south to be a lady. Arya wanted to roll her eyes and gag at the idea, but she wouldn't. She had made a promise to her parents, and she'd do it. All be it reluctantly, and she was certainly not going to enjoy it!

"And Lyra?" Lyanna's voice wavered. She looked on the verge of tears.

Jorelle shook her head. "There have been no arrangements." She took a sip of her broth before answering, "But Maester Mathis has sent ravens to White Harbor and Karhold."

Lyanna sagged in her seat at the idea of having another one of her sisters being sent so far away from Bear Island. "I'll never see you."

"Of course you will," Jorelle cupped her youngest sister's face. "Who else will train my sons and daughters to fight then their Aunt Lyanna?"

"I'd like that," Lyanna admitted through a sniffle.

Arya turned back towards her food. Feeling as if she was intruding on a private family moment, she finished off her venison in two bites, savoring the lean, seasoned taste. It wasn't until she swallowed the last bite that they brought her back into the conversation.

"What about you, Arya?"

"What about me?" Arya feigned confusion. She didn't want to meet their inquisitive stares so she settled her attention on her supper, taking a bite of her cut up fish.

"Hasn't your maester and Lord Father discussed any potential marital arrangements with you?" Jorelle sounded confused. "Now that your brother and future Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell is betrothed to the Princess Myrcella Baratheon and your sister who will soon marry, Lord Domeric and become Lady of the Dreadfort," Jorelle continued in her explanation. "Haven't they tried to set a match for you?"

No, she wanted to blurt out.

Arya wanted to travel, to fight, and it was just stupid that all she was expected to do was marry and have children. She wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. Why couldn't she fight for her home, for her family like her brothers were expected to do when they reached adulthood?

It wasn't fair and she hated it.

"No," Arya answered politely, remembering she was representing her family, and that she promised her parents she would behave. "But I trust in the wisdom of my Lord Father in securing a match for me." She recited the words while trying to summon her best Sansa impersonation. She wanted to roll her eyes as she said, stick out her tongue when she finished, but she didn't.

She smiled graciously at the kind word and the encouragements that Lyanna and Jorelle gave her. A smile that she was certain would make her sister proud. They didn't need to know her true intentions.

I'll never marry.

That had been the vow she had made. The only vow she'll ever make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and to those who drop a kudos.
> 
> Also please don't forget to comment. It means a lot to get your feedback. Hopefully, this chapter will push this story over a hundred comments. 
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	21. Robb

"Did I look too happy to have court adjourned for the day?"

Robb was concerned he may start being called the hasty wolf by how quickly he liked to leave the Great hall once court was over. He tried to temper his relief from showing when his duties as Lord of Winterfell were done. It was still challenging for him to not look relieved to be done hearing the people's petitions.

A small smile played on the maester's lips. "It was hardly noticeable, Lord Stark."

He snorted at the maester's subtle jest. Appreciative of not just his words but his presence, Robb was certain he wouldn't have fared this well or long without Maester Luwin's patience and guidance.

"How is Joseth faring with his new duties?"

"He is performing well, Lord Stark," Maester Luwin answered, "He has continued the training of the yearlings that Master Hullen left behind."

"Good," Robb let loose the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. He was thankful to hear that the succession had gone smoothly. He was nervous at all these tasks that had been set before him. As well as the roles that he needed to fill once his father had ridden south to the capital with so much of Winterfell's household accompanying him.

It had fallen on Robb to oversee Winterfell. The north was his responsibility now.

He felt Winterfell looming over him. It was a shadow he could not shake. A shadow, he found himself threatened to be engulfed by the intimidating presence and history of his family's seat. The burdens and responsibilities that came with Winterfell were many and numbing to Robb.

Robb tried to emulate his father and remember the lessons he had taught him when it came to ruling, but it was different now. Before they were simple questions that Robb would try to answer. Now, they weren't just words but proper rulings that were expected to be carried out. His word was being followed. Something that he was still trying to come to terms with.

"Your Lord Father would be proud at how you have handled the duties as Lord of Winterfell." It was as if Maester Luwin could sense Robb's apprehension. The Maester of Winterfell walked in Robb's shadow, a head shorter than Robb, garbed in the grey robes of his order.

The Grey Man, that's what Rickon called him. Robb smiled at his youngest brother's description of Maester Luwin believing it to be fitting. Besides the grey robes he wore, Luwin had a few wisps of grey hair that lingered on his otherwise bald head. His grey eyes were kind and honest.

"Thank you," Robb meant the words. In the beginning, he lay awake most nights fretting over the day at court, second guessing and criticizing not just the choices he made, but the words he used or how he presented himself. His mind didn't let him rest.

It had thankfully lessened this past week as he became more certain of himself and upon hearing encouragement from his rulings. As well as seeing his decisions were bearing fruit. Still, the voice needled him from the back of his mind when his thoughts were left to wander.

Robb wished he had Jon and Domeric with him. He could use their voices. He respected both of them. They took their duties seriously, and he couldn't think of two better minds to help him handle the affairs of Winterfell or two people he could better trust.

He had Theon, someone he trusted. However, the Heir of the Iron Islands found the proceedings boring. Theon preferred spending his time elsewhere then attending court which he described as sitting till your arse was sore while listening to people rattle on with their complaints.

"You've handled the tasks remarkably," Maester Luwin told him, "Considering you've been alone with your Lady Mother's departure."

"Has there been anything?" Robb hesitated with his question already knowing the answer before seeing the Maester shake his head.

"You know it would be difficult and risky for her to send something."

"I know," Robb sighed, running a hand through his hair. He and Luwin made a turn into the corridor that would lead them to his brother's chambers.

"I did receive something else, however," Luwin's hands disappeared into the folds of his robes as he withdrew a sealed letter, "from the capital." His eyes twinkled in the torch light, "Someone who in the future will help you manage the affairs and household of this very castle."

"Thank you, Maester," Robb took the letter, hoping his face didn't come across flush in the dimly lit corridor as his thoughts drifted to the Princess. He looked down to see the Royal Stag seal pressed into the wax, and couldn't fight the smile that came to his lips upon realizing he got another letter from his betrothed.

Thinking on the Maester's words, Robb couldn't help but conjure Myrcella dressed in gray, draped in furs sitting beside him in the great hall as the Lady of Winterfell. He found himself perking up at the image, thinking of how beautiful she'd look in his family's colors. Their colors, he corrected himself with a hopeful smile. She'd be a Stark too.

Still smiling upon realizing how enticing that future appeared to be. He pocketed the letter from the princess, and was looking forward to reading it when he found a moment to himself later that evening.

"Robb!"

A blur ran towards him, he had just enough time to crouch down before his youngest brother had latched onto him. Robb was quick to lift Rickon up into his arms where his brother giggled.

"Go faster!" he urged him.

Robb chuckled, spinning him once, carefully avoiding the close corridor walls as well as the Maester who sidestepped the two Stark brothers with a small, fond smile on his lips. Rickon's laughter bounced off the walls, providing more warmth in Robb's heart than any of the lit torches that lined the corridors.

"You didn't start the fun without me did you?" Robb put his brother down onto the floor, thankful that he wasn't dizzy after the spin.

"No," Rickon shook his head quickly causing his auburn curls to tussle.

"Good," Robb smiled, patting his shoulder. "Did you bring your toys?"

"Yes," Rickon said proudly. He looked pleased with himself for being able to follow Robb's earlier instructions.

"I'm glad," Robb then turned to Maester Luwin who had been quietly watching the two brothers interact. "Will you come back in an hour so that my brothers can have their lessons?"

"Of course, Lord Stark," Maester Luwin bowed his head, before shuffling off down the corridor.

"Come on, Robb," Rickon grabbed onto his hand. An amused Robb allowed himself to be led into Bran's room. "Look, Bran!" Rickon displayed Robb like a proud hunter would with a fresh kill.

Rickon rushed back over towards his brother's bed where he had put all of his toys carefully so that they wouldn't be in Bran's way. While his youngest brother was moving quickly and babbling excitedly about his toys, Bran lay on his bed, thick auburn curls framing his face, blue eyes looking distant, face pale, and he barely followed Rickon's movement.

It hurt Robb to see his brother look dejected. Bran who was so full of laughter and excitement who loved to climb and explore to recede and become a shell of himself. Robb could still remember one of his first conversations with his brother after he had woken up.

"How can I help?"

Bran's blue eyes softened. He bit down on his lower lip to stop it from quivering, "You can't," his voice hitched, "You can't help me, Robb."

It felt as if he had been punched in the gut. "I can," he said softly, "I have to." He blinked back tears upon seeing him so weak and distraught. "I'm your older brother."

Coming back into the present, Robb had made little progress with Bran. He was supposed to be able to protect and care for his younger brothers and sisters, and the fact that he couldn't even get Bran to smile was disheartening.

Robb spotted Summer, Bran's direwolf had taken his usual seat, resting at the foot of Bran's bed. His head resting in between his paws as his eyes looked further up the bed where Rickon was currently sitting in a chair and playing with a few toys on the bed.

Grey wind, Robb's direwolf who was growing quickly, already surpassing the size of many of the hounds in Farlen's kennel. Stuck to Robb like his shadow, having followed him into the room and had settled on a spot by the hearth, curled up on the floor.

Shaggydog, Rickon's direwolf which was the least tamed of the litter was well behaved in the presence of his littermates specifically Grey Wind who had taken the role as alpha amongst their pack. He had curled up beneath Bran's table, but his green eyes remained on Rickon, watching intently.

"So what's the game?" Robb pulled a spare chair from the nearby table and putting it on the other side of Bran's bed, having him sit across from Rickon. He patted his brother on the arm as he took his seat before tousling his hair.

That had gotten his brother's attention, Bran moved his head to Robb and where their eyes met, the barest of smiles came to his younger brother's lips. It was enough for Robb to beam triumphantly at seeing his first hint of happiness since his brother fell.

The first of many, Robb reminded himself. This was why it was so important for him to make time for his brothers every day.

It was only the three of them now.

It was not always easy to put aside time from his growing duties as Lord of Winterfell, but Robb made them. He wouldn't ignore his brothers. They needed him. He was all they had right now, and he couldn't disappoint them.

"Here," Rickon tossed one of the wooden carved toys at Robb who deftly caught it. He looked down at the skillfully carved toy to see he was holding what looked to be a knight. It was an armored man bearing sword and shield.

"Very well," Robb placed his piece on the surface of Bran's bed but positioned it so that his brothers could see it. "I'll be Theon Stark!" He declared dramatically, "The Hungry Wolf."

"I want to be a direwolf!" Rickon declared, moving his direwolf piece across the bed. He then threw back his head and howled.

All three direwolves perked up at the noise. Shaggydog moved to his feet, and joined in with a soft whine. Grey Wind's amber eyes took in Rickon and Shaggydog with curiosity, tilting his head to the side, but remained quiet. Summer looked at them from his spot on the bed, but after a few seconds he put his head back down, uninterested in joining in.

"Well done," Robb chuckled at his youngest brother's antics. He then turned to Bran, silently hopeful that his brother would join them. "What about you, Bran?"

Bran's lips pursed together, brows furrowed as he took in the scattered pieces of the ensemble of toys that Rickon had brought with him. He gingerly picked up the dragon toy: finely carved and poised to attack with the dragon posed in mid roar to show its teeth. He ran his fingers over the wings of the dragon before turning to Robb.

"I'm not sure a dragon can beat the hungry wolf," Robb teased, moving his armed figure closer to Bran's in a challenging gesture.

"Nothing can beat a dragon," Bran told him. "They can fly!" He then lifted his piece off of the bed away from Robb's figure before swooping it back down towards Robb's piece, causing him to relinquish his hold on his toy with a laugh.

"Try me!" Rickon was bouncing in his seat with excitement after watching Bran's dragon take out Robb's toy.

Robb silently watched with a smile on his lips his two young brothers playing with their toys in a battle between direwolf and dragon. His heart soared at seeing Bran now actively playing and smiling and even laughing as his dragon and Rickon's direwolf jostled one another for victory.

If Robb was honest with himself, he found himself enjoying his time with them. He loved looking across to see his littlest brother giggling and babbling as he played with his toys or one of their silly games they've played in the past. Now, that he got Bran to finally join them, Robb was ecstatic and hopeful that his brother's spirits would only improve. Allowing them to have more fun and get more enjoyment out of their time together.

It felt good for him to simply shed his title as Lord of Winterfell and allow him to just be Robb, the older brother. He knew his brothers were hurting with Father, Mother, Sansa, Arya, Jon, and even Domeric all having left Winterfell. So to give them his undivided attention even for a little while, he thought it could help them with their grief.

"Robb."

He blinked, having been lost in thought, he noticed Rickon and Bran weren't playing anymore. He turned to se Theon was standing in the doorway. He wasn't smirking.

"What is it?" Robb sat up straighter, slipping into the role of Lord of Winterfell

"Riders approaching," Theon informed him. "It's the Imp!"

A swell of anger burned in his gut at the mention of the arrival of Tyrion Lannister. Remembering his mother's warning about the Lannisters and their plots in the capital and how she feared it may have been them that had caused Bran's fall and the subsequent failed assassination attempt.

Robb's first instinct was to close the gates of Winterfell and deny Lannister their food and hearth.

He's Myrcella's uncle, a small voice could be heard, cutting through the haze of anger that was threatening to overcome his senses. He'll be your uncle by law once you're married.

Robb frowned at that reminder. If he barred the Imp from Winterfell it would certainly lead back to the capital and would certainly raise questions from the Princess and others. His mother told him of discretion and that they couldn't allow the Lannisters to pick up on their suspicions.

He needed to tread carefully.

Robb moved to stand finding his anger smothered like a blanket covering a fire, snuffing out his frustration. He noticed Maester Luwin had arrived, standing at Theon's elbow. "Very well," he could tell Theon was caught off guard by Robb's neutral tone.

"Prepare bread, salt and wine for our guests." Robb was certain he noticed a proud look flicker over Luwin's expression for not being hasty in his judgment.

"He's not alone. He's traveling with some men of the Night's Watch." Theon told him. "Snow's with them."

That news brought a smile to Robb, a loud cheer from Rickon, and he turned to see Bran too looked excited upon hearing that their brother was back at Winterfell.

"Then let's not keep them waiting."

\-------------

"Thank you," Robb was looking down at the table to see Bran and Rickon sitting on either side of their brother, Jon, who looked taken aback by the attention his littlest brothers were giving him, both of whom were brimming with excitement and happiness that Jon had returned to them.

"You returned one brother and saved another."

"Saved?" Tyrion's brows furrowed together, putting aside his suckling pig to give him his attention. "I didn't save him, Lord Stark."

"You did," Robb assured him, eyes still on Bran, a smile lingered on his lips at seeing how Bran was behaving now, he was smiling with his brothers, talking excitedly, waving his arms.

Robb had wondered and feared if he'd ever see his brother's old self and not the shade that had lingered since his fall, but the turn of events that started today offered a brighter future for Bran after his fall then Robb had thought possible.

He didn't think he'd ever forget the smile that Bran gave that nearly threatened to split his face when Tyrion revealed his unexpected surprise. That Bran would be able to ride again. Due to a saddle of Lord Tyrion's own creation, as well as instructions on how to train the yearling so that it can properly adapt to the unconventional lessons that it would need to learn in order to carry Bran.

Robb had already tasked Maester Luwin and Joseth with the project in both creating the saddle and preparing the yearling to be trained. He hoped it was only a matter of weeks before he could see his brother riding once more.

"I'm sending a letter ahead of you," Robb revealed to the man who would day be his uncle by law when he married the Princess Myrcella. "To the capital, to my father, he will personally want to thank you for the kind service you've done his son and our family."

We already have reason to suspect their loyalty, his mother's words cut through his thoughts like knife through cheese.

I'd stake my life that the Lannisters are involved. She had spoken with such commitment about her suspicions on the Lannisters and the role they played in trying to kill Bran twice.

How then would she react if she were to walk into the great hall and see Tyrion Lannister seated at the high table as a welcomed guest?

She'd understand, Robb wanted to say. She'd be happy upon seeing Bran smiling and knowing that he'd be able to ride a horse. Besides, he couldn't give the Lannisters a reason to suspect them. Tyrion would be his uncle by law when he married the princess, refusing him guest right without cause would bring a great amount of scrutiny to the Starks from both the capital and Casterly Rock.

"You honor me, Lord Robb," Tyrion looked taken aback by Robb's sincere words. "But I fear that I must correct you on something you said," he was wiping the grease from his fingers on the front of his Lannister red doublet.

"What is that?"

"I didn't return your brother," Tyrion explained delicately, "Your brother will be traveling with me south to the capital."

That was not what Robb was expecting and it seemed he wasn't able to properly conceal his surprise at this news.

"I invited him to travel with me," Lord Tyrion explained, "He was miserable at the Wall and I feared he may stay there out of stubbornness if not offered an alternative."

"He had alternatives," Robb was unable to stop himself from thinking why Jon had chosen to travel with Tyrion instead of staying at Winterfell with Robb or taking up Domeric's suggestion. He couldn't deny the soft ache that seemed to expand in his chest upon hearing the news that his brother wasn't in fact staying with them.

He found his eyes drifting down the table and instead of a smile at seeing his brothers all together, a frown played on his lips. How was he supposed to tell Bran and Rickon that Jon wasn't staying? Their joy at seeing their brother was about to be dashed. They never would've thought of Jon returning only to be leaving so soon.

Robb hadn't.

Bitterness clawed at his insides. He tried to quell it by taking a long sip from his wine that had remained relatively untouched throughout dinner.

"Do not be mad at him," Tyrion suggested gently.

"I'm not mad," Robb nearly snapped, louder and more aggravated then he intended. "Forgive me, Lord Tyrion." He was quick with his apology.

"I understand you know," Tyrion said softly, "I was devastated when my brother joined the Kingsguard, I was but a boy and I had lost my one true friend." He took a long sip from his glass of wine. His mismatched eyes almost seemed to glisten in the light.

"But you didn't push him away," Robb confessed so softly he thought it'd go unnoticed but he spotted the reaction from Lord Tyrion.

"Neither did you," Tyrion told him, "He speaks fondly of you, all of you." He gestured to Winterfell as if trying to properly summarize everything and everyone Jon had talked about, "But you," he pointed a finger at him, "And your youngest sister most of all."

Robb couldn't smother the smile that came to his face at Tyrion's words. "Thank you."

Lord Tyrion inclined his head to Robb to acknowledge he heard his gratitude. Then a grin was quick to come to his lips, and a mischievous glint could be seen in his eyes. "Now, tell me what sort of message shall I deliver to the princess on your behalf?"

\--------------------------

A pathway of lit lanterns started from Winterfell castle leading to the weirwood tree at the heart of the Godswood.

The lights weren't needed for Robb Stark.

He had walked this path day and night for years. It had become second nature to him. He stood before the weirwood tree of the Godswood, the dim orange glow of the lanterns made the red eyes gleam and the face to hauntingly stare back at Robb.

Robb sought the company of the old gods now. This was a place of reverence filled with silence that allowed him to gather his thoughts and rest his burdens. He could rest in peace after listening to arguments and counting numbers and working on preparations. It never ended for the Lord of Winterfell. But here, he had a reprieve and it made him thankful.

This was ancient, primal ground where Robb's ancestors have come for thousands of years to honor and seek wisdom from the old gods.

What did Torrhen Stark think or pray beneath the protective stare of the weirwood tree when he heard of Aegon the Conqueror, his sister/wives and his three dragons? The North had repelled invaders before both Iron Born and Andals. Torrhen had called on his bannermen and marshaled them under the King in the North banners as he rode to meet the next invader who tried to conquer the north.

He eventually knelt to the awesome power that was the dragons and the Targaryens, and would forever be known as the King who knelt. He had left this Godswood the King in the North and returned without his crown, and with a new title, Warden of the North. What conversations or prayers did he have then with the old gods?

Uncertain victory or certain peace, Robb thought, those were the options presented to his ancestor, King Torrhen Stark and he chose certain peace under the dragons. He could not fault him for kneeling, for protecting his people from the dragon's wrath. His father had often told Robb, the importance a lord must hold of his oaths in protecting and caring for his people.

Looking into the red eyes, Robb bowed his head in respect before going to his knees. The cold dirt made for a sore embrace but he ignored it. It was not about comfort.

Robb sought guidance. Even now his heart and mind wrestled with the recent decisions he's had to make. Right now, Tyrion Lannister sat beneath the roof of Winterfell, a guest of Robb Stark, and by giving him bread and salt; Robb had put him under his protection.

His mother's warnings gnawed at his insides like a persistent dog with a bone.

Let them rest here, he prayed. Lift or bury them, he implored the old gods about the doubt that still lingered.

A rustle from the winds stirred the branches, creaking and softly tussling above him in the darkness.

They had answered, he thought. His eyes found the red eyes that were carved into the weirwood tree.

The noise of crunching underfoot pulled his attention away, looking over his shoulder to see two red pricks staring back at him in the darkness.

"Ghost," he inclined his head towards his brother's direwolf. Earning its namesake, the pale direwolf stalked quietly out of the darkness, white fur basked in a golden glow as it neared one of the lit lanterns.

"Grey Wind," Robb called to his direwolf knowing he was the culprit of the sound he had heard. Amber eyes came into the light before the smoke colored direwolf emerged from beside Ghost, rubbing his head affectionately against Ghost before bounding over towards Robb.

He patted the top of Grey Wind's head, knowing how happy his direwolf was at being reunited with his littermate even if briefly. Robb mirrored the sentiment with his own brother, Jon.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Aye," Robb saw his brother come into view from the lit pathway. He had wanted to speak with Jon alone. To tell him of his family's suspicions of the Lannisters since Jon was set on traveling with one of them.

"How are Bran and Rickon?"

"Lord Tyrion is regaling them with stories from old history books," Jon looked amused. "When I left, he was telling them about dragons." He shook his head, a smile at his lips. "It'll be a dragon not a horse that Bran will want to ride once the saddle is made."

Robb laughed at that. "There are no dragons at Winterfell."

"No," Jon agreed, "But that never stopped us before."

Robb knew what his brother was referring to. The games they use to play when they were children, pretending to be the great heroes from the lessons that Maester Luwin had taught them. How Robb had often been Daeron the Young Dragon while Jon was Prince Aemon the Dragonknight.

The fun they had together. Robb couldn't help but smile.

The battles they pretended to wage. The names they'd shout of the heroes they wanted to emulate.

I'm the Lord of Winterfell, his brother had often shouted, and Robb would play along except the one time, he hadn't…

You can't be Lord of Winterfell, you're a bastard-born. My lady mother says you can't ever be the Lord of Winterfell.

Robb's smile dipped at the memory, curdling his insides at the bitterness that lingered in his gut at the reminder. His brother deserved better than that, he thought.

Blaming it on him being young, rang hollow in Robb's heart. He should've known better. Jon was his brother by blood. He never would've said that to Bran or Rickon in the games they played when they pretended to be great Lords of Winterfell, a title they would not carry, bastard born or not.

"Robb?"

He blinked to see his brother giving him a concerned look. "I'm just happy to have you back," pushing aside the memory, "Even if it's only briefly."

"Lord Tyrion told you," Jon couldn't meet his eyes.

"He did," Robb hoped his tone conveyed his understanding of his brother's decision and that he was not mad at him.

"I'm sorry," Jon apologized, "I should've told you."

"No," Robb stopped him. "I…I understand," remembering his conversation with Lord Tyrion as well as a previous one with his Lord Father about the importance of finding your own path. "Have you told Bran and Rickon?"

"No, but I will," Jon vowed.

"They'll understand." Robb hoped they would for Jon's sake. He feared how they'd react, but Robb would be there to soothe the anger in the aftermath and help them to understand why it was Jon was leaving.

"I haven't told Father."

"Will you?" Robb wasn't sure how Father would react to Jon's decision to not take the Black and to travel with Lord Tyrion.

"I don't know," Jon shrugged. "You know what Father told me before he went south and I went to the Wall?"

Robb shook his head.

"Next time we see each other we'll talk about your mother, I promise." Jon took a breath, "Do you think he will if I meet him in the capital?"He looked at Robb hopefully, as if needing him to confirm it.

"Our father is a man of his word," Robb reminded his brother, clapping him on the shoulder. He saw his brother's reluctant nod, and understood Jon's fear. He wanted to believe, but he was afraid. He had wanted answers for so long about his mother.

Robb hoped he'd get them. His brother deserved to know who she was.

"Aye, I shouldn't have doubted him." Jon sounded more certain, "Just afraid I guess," He let out a weak laugh, "I've wanted to know for so long and to know that at the end of the road with my travels with Lord Tyrion I could get them." He shook his head. "I fear it a dream and I'll wake up."

"You'll know soon," Robb reminded him. "But know that it'll never change anything between us." He saw Jon's eyes turn to him. He had father's eyes. "You'll always be my brother." He then pulled his brother into an embrace. Wanting to convey how much his brother meant to him, and wanting him to know how much he'd miss him as he continued south in his travels.

"And you'll always have a place at Winterfell."

"Thank you, brother," Jon clapped him on the back when the embrace ended.

Relieved, and pleased that he got to say what he wanted to say to his brother. He decided to switch the subject back to his brother's travels south with Lord Tyrion and to the capital. "Will you compete in the tourney?"

"And steal Dom's glory?" Jon grinned.

Robb laughed and his brother was quick to join in. Both brothers savoring the levity, reminding him of the countless many they shared, growing up of the pranks they'd pull or the jokes they'd tell and the laughs that would follow.

"Mayhaps the melee," Jon said once the laughter subsided.

"You could win," Robb encouraged him. His brother was good with a sword. Robb also knew the opportunity Jon's showing at the tourney could provide him in helping to secure a stable income and possible future if he impressed the right knights or lords.

"Well, I was always the better sword than you," Jon pointed out.

Robb took his brother's jest with a smile and a nod, but he did not take the bait to respond in kind. As much as he wanted to exchange stories and laughs with his brother, he had brought him out here because Jon needed to know. He had to be told about the Lannisters, their suspicion that they were involved in Bran's fall and the subsequent attempt on his life; an attempt that Jon wasn't even aware of yet. He would be. Robb had to tell him everything.

He knew the Godswood was a safe place to speak in peace. This wasn't a place southerners wanted to tread even with the lanterns. They feared or were wise enough to respect the presence of the old gods and the power they had here, north of the neck. Not to mention the prowling of two direwolves, Grey Wind and Ghost would make it impossible for any onlooker to listen in on this sensitive conversation.

"Jon, we need to talk about the Lannisters."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and to those who drop a kudos.
> 
> Also please don't forget to comment. It means a lot to me when I get your feedback. 
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	22. Myrcella

"Are you ready?"

Princess Myrcella Baratheon looked across the table to see her younger brother, Tommen. The only thing visible of him was his bright green eyes, and his long blond hair that fell over his forehead like a golden curtain. The rest of him was hidden from the tome he was holding.

"I am."

When father announced her betrothal to Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, Myrcella was determined to know everything she could about the north. She'd one day be Lady of Winterfell, and it was her duty to learn.

Before she left Winterfell, she sought out her uncle, Tyrion to have him tell her what books she should read upon her return to the capital. She'd never ask the Grand Maester. She didn't like him. His nails were long and dirty, and he smelled like cabbage. Thankfully, her uncle knew some good history tomes that would help her. However, he didn't need to be grinning or add some japes about her and her future husband when he recommended them to her.

So she currently found herself in her chambers with her brother, who was eager and excited to help. One of the reasons why she loved Tommen so much, he was so kind and always wanted to help. He hadn't hesitated when she asked.

Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard was also there. He was her constant protector. She had thought about asking him to help her, but knew he'd be uncomfortable at the task. He was a knight, not a scholar. He didn't seem interested in the matter of learning. He was probably happier standing by the door and not talking then having to sit down and read.

Her youngest brother was holding one of the very books that her uncle Tyrion had recommended. It was a history of the northern houses. Myrcella was trying to memorize the Stark bannermen.

"House Mormont?"

That's an easy one, she remembered them being mentioned while she was at Winterfell. They were going to foster Arya, Robb's youngest sister.

"It's a black bear in a green wood."

"And what are their words?"

"Here we stand," Myrcella recited.

"Good job," Tommen lifted his head over the book so that he could show her a proud smile. Even with an easy question, he'd always encourage her. His smile dipped when he moved back to the book. "House Bolton?"

She could understand her brother's reaction. He didn't like their sigil. Remembering how afraid he had been when he saw it while they were at Winterfell. Even on cloth, the sight of it made Myrcella uncomfortable. She never let her eyes linger.

"A red flayed man, hanging upside down," The words were thick and she spoke them clumsily, trying to ignore the haunting image of their blazon. "On an x-shaped cross, on a black field." She noticed Tommen had raised his head over the book, not wanting his eyes or attention to dwell on the pages that detailed the Bolton family and history. She couldn't blame him.

"Their words?" he asked his voice softer then it had been before.

"Our blades are sharp," she found them one of the more intimidating ones especially when she had read some of their history. She wouldn't easily forget the brief passages she read about it before she had stopped herself.

Tommen was eager to move past the Boltons, hastily turning the page. "What about House Karstark?"

Myrcella frowned. She knew that House Karstark descended from House Stark, but their sigil wasn't quick to come to her. It took her a few seconds before their image became apparent, "A white sunburst on a black field."

"What are their words?"

"Erh," Myrcella bit her lip, wracking her brain trying to remember. She recalled a trick to help her when she first learned of them. It had to do with their sigil and the Stark's words…

That was when it came to her, "The sun of winter."

"I thought I had you there," Tommen said playfully.

"Are you trying to beat me, brother?" Myrcella asked in feigned exasperation.

Tommen shook his head; "House Hornwood?"

She sent him a suspicious stare with no ill will that had Tommen dramatically duck his head behind the book to shield him from her, but it didn't stop his giggling; which in Myrcella's eyes proved that he was indeed trying to get one over her.

"House Hornwood," she parroted, as if repeating the name would conjure to her their blazon. It didn't.

"Want a hint?" His eyes were looking at her over the book.

Sweet, helpful Tommen, she thought with a wide smile. "Very well,"

"It's an animal."

That only sort of helped her. She knew lots of houses in the north and other realms used an animal for their sigil. A few animals came to her: lizard-lion, horse, and moose. It was the last one that jolted her memory. "It's a moose!" she grinned triumphantly, "On a dark orange field." She leaned back in her seat enjoying her victory.

"And what about their words?" Tommen's tone was mischievous.

Myrcella felt her smile dip and her victory dashed. She was drawing a blank on their words.

"Do you want me to tell you, sweet sister?" He asked innocently.

She sighed. "Very well?"

"Righteous in wrath," Tommen closed the book. He was grinning.

She rolled her eyes at her brother eliciting a laugh from him and she too joined in. She couldn't be mad at him. Knowing he was only playing with her. She doubted her little brother had an ounce of meanness in him. Even by besting her, Myrcella knew next time they'd do this he'd be the first to encourage her to make sure she was ready. Tommen would never stop helping her.

"In my day, studies weren't so amusing."

Myrcella and her brother stopped laughing at the familiar voice both turning to see the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard standing in the doorway, looking at them with a wry smile.

"Ser Barristan!" Tommen greeted the old knight excitedly. It was no secret that Tommen favored the Lord Commander over any other member of the Kingsguard.

"Prince Tommen," Ser Barristan Selmy offered the prince a crisp bow before winking at him. His friendly eyes then turned to the Princess, "and Princess Myrcella."

"It's always great to see you, Ser Barristan." She meant every word of it. "But I thought you were training for the tourney?"

"I was," he answered, "but I thought I'd relieve Ser Arys from his duty of watching over you two so that he could train."

"Lord Commander?" Arys repeated clearly surprised by the gesture.

"Do not fret, Ser Arys," Barristan put a gauntleted hand on his fellow knight's soldier, "I have years of training to rely on. You could use the practice," he sent her and Tommen a grin at the last line.

"Thank you, Lord Commander," He looked appreciative of the offer. He then turned to her. "I'll be back afterwards, Princess."

"Of course, Ser Arys," she didn't begrudge him his chance to train. Smiling, as he bowed to them before stepping out of the her chambers, his pale cloak slipped past the door before it closed.

"Please, Ser Barristan, come and sit," she stood from her chair and beckoned him to join them.

He eyed the seat warily, "Afraid I may drop, princess?" His wry tone belayed his words.

"No," Myrcella answered hastily, hoping she hadn't offended the Lord Commander. "I just thought you'd like to sit for a few minutes after all the training."

"You are kind, princess," He gave her a warm smile before coming to join them. "But only for a minute." He held up a hand. "I can't be known as the knight that sits."

"You're Barristan the Bold!" Tomen exclaimed.

"They say to my face," the Lord Commander said, "but Barristan the Old to my back."

"Don't listen to the fools at court, Ser Barristan," she patted his arm. "There's no better knight I'd want to guard me," she then dropped her tone in a feigned conspirator manner. "Just don't say that to Ser Arys!"

Ser Barristan chuckled, "You have my word as a knight." He held up his hand in a mock pledge.

"Me too," Tommen wanted to play along. Mirroring Ser Barristan's movements, "As a prince, I swear."

Myrcella favored her little brother with a grin. "I'm so blessed to have such respectable, stalwart men to protect my honor."

Tommen puffed up at the praise.

"How was the training?" Myrcella was curious on how others were faring as they prepared for the tourney. She had seen blazons from houses throughout the kingdoms as lords and knights were making their way into the city. All of whom drawn here by the Tourney of the Hand, it was said that this tournament would be one of the larger ones Westeros has seen in years. So it was no wonder that so many had come to attend in the hopes of achieving the victory and glory that was offered.

"Your Uncle hasn't slowed with horse or lance," Ser Barristan told them. "He should do well again in this tourney."

"If he wins he'll crown mother," Tommen said happily.

"Aye, he will," Barristan nodded.

Myrcella tussled her brother's hair affectionately as she took a seat beside him. "Anyone else catch your eye?"

"The Bolton heir is good," Barristan admitted, "he rides like he's half horse."

"Like a centaur?" Tommen giggled.

"Yes, my prince," Barristan smiled at him, "like a centaur."

"Do you think he can win?" Myrcella was curious with the Lord Commander's opinion of Sansa's betrothed. She knew Ser Barristan was always honest with his words and judgment.

Barristan didn't answer right away. He looked to be considering her question. "He's strong with the lance," he scratched his beard. "He has a chance, princess."

"Good," Myrcella was happy to hear it. She couldn't help but think how romantic it could be if Domeric won the tournament and named Sansa, his queen of love and beauty. The thought made her smile. It'd be perfect.

"Mother says the north is full of savages and fools," Tommen said suddenly, clearly oblivious to the meaning behind the words.

Myrcella's smile faltered at hearing her innocent brother say such things without truly understanding them. He often parroted remarks mother would say in hopes of receiving more of her smiles and attention, but sadly, their mother only seemed to have eyes for their older brother, Joffrey.

Tommen was too young to understand how dangerous what he said could be if heard by the wrong people. The offense that could be taken if Lord Stark or Lord Domeric heard such words. Not to mention it cast a poor light on their mother, the Queen. She glanced over to see Ser Barristan was frowning.

"My prince," Ser Barristan said gently, "I've known many men from the north and they are honorable and worthy of respect." His voice had taken a stern tone, "You mustn't say such things about the north especially in front of Lord Stark, and the other men who have traveled with him."

Color came to Tommen's cheeks as he realized he was being scolded, he ducked his head. "I'm sorry, Ser Barristan." His voice hitching and tears threatened to spill down his now reddened cheeks. "I won't, I promise."

"It's alright, Tommen," Myrcella was quick to soothe her younger brother, wrapping an arm around him and bringing him close to her. "You didn't know."

"Yes, my prince," Ser Barristan added quickly. "No harm was done. We must do better moving forward."

"I will," Tommen swore, lips quivering as fat tears came down his cheeks.

Ser Barristan sent him a kind smile. "That is why you are such a great prince."

Tommen's face lit up at the praise given to him by the Lord Commander. "I won't disappoint you, Ser Barristan."

"My prince," the Lord Commander assured him, "You can never disappoint me."

\------------------------

Myrcella blinked back tears.

Her vision was nearly becoming blurry but still that didn't stop her. She moved with as much haste as she could through the corridors of the Red Keep. She knew mother would be angry. But she didn't care.

Myrcella didn't run. She was a lady and even when upset certain decorum was still expected, especially for a princess. Her hands were grasping the silks of her new dress to help lift her skirts as she moved. Unable to dab at her eyes now that tears were starting to slip through and run down her cheeks.

She could hear the heavy metal boots of her silent protector, Ser Arys trailing her as loyally as her own shadow. "My Princess?"

A part of her wanted to ignore him. Pretend she didn't hear him, but she couldn't. She was a lady and it was unbecoming to act in such a way. Myrcella stopped, turning to see Ser Arys was right in front of her, having no difficulty in keeping up with her with his long legs and strides when she all but bolted out of her chambers.

He said nothing as he offered her a yellow handkerchief, his family sigil emblazoned on it.

"Thank you," she sniffed, taking it and quickly dabbing at her eyes. "You must think me a fool."

"Never, princess," Ser Arys replied quickly.

She gave him a watery smile. It wasn't supposed to have happened like this. She had been so excited for today. Her newly commissioned dress was to be presented to her and she had been so excited to see it.

Everything had been going splendidly. The dressmaker had brought it and it looked beautiful and Myrcella had been eager to try it on and to see how it would look. She had slipped into the dress, admiring her reflection in the mirror as she did a little twirl.

"What do you think, Ser Arys?" She turned to her silent knight who was standing a few feet away.

"You are a vision," he praised, "Many a men's heart will be taken when they see you." A smile came to his comely face, "But do not worry, I will keep them away." He said the last part as he put his hand on the pommel of his sword.

Myrcella glowed at his praise. A giggle escaped her lips, as she shook her head. "My betrothed will thank you for defending my honor."

Ser Arys smiled, and bowed his head.

The mention of her betrothed brought a flush to her cheeks and her tummy to do a somersault. Returning her attention to her reflection, she inspected her appearance wondering how Robb Stark would react if he were to see her in this dress. She hoped his lovely blue eyes that rivaled the bright sky would look her over with affection. For a smile to come to his lips, that had a way of making her tummy flutter the few times she had been the recipient of it. For him to put his hands on her and…

"Yellow and black?" Her mother's voice broke her from her musings.

Startled, but still smiling, she turned to her mother, modeling the dress. "Isn't it lovely, Mother?" She looked down at the beautiful black and yellow silk and lace. It was cut in the southern fashion, allowing glimpses of skin to be seen along her back, but the neckline didn't reveal too much.

Not that she had much, she thought with a critical eye. Myrcella didn't have her mother's or Sansa's curves. Mother had told her she was still growing and not to worry. She had only recently flowered and that her body was still developing.

That's how mother put it when they had gotten together in the aftermath of it. Despite the blood and the aches, Myrcella had cherished the time afterwards because it had just been her and mother. They had had tea and talked all morning. It had been wonderful.

"A stag?" Her mother's eyes were focused on the Baratheon sigil.

"Yes, mother," She bobbed her head up and down. Myrcella often wore the Lannister colors, and liked them just as much as the Baratheons, but since this was such a large tournament, she decided her father's colors would be best. "I am a Baratheon."

"You're also a Lannister," Her mother corrected sharply.

Myrcella had been taken aback by the venom in her mother's voice. She noticed the dressmaker had visibly shrunken and slunk out of view, no doubt not wanting to be the target of the Queen's cutting words. "M-mother?" she didn't understand. She heard her voice waver when it slipped past her mouth.

"Do you think the lion beneath you? Is my house beneath you?"

"No," she said quickly.

"Too good to be a Lannister?" Her mother shook her head. "Your brother doesn't think he's too good to be one." She pointed a finger at her. "He appreciates my house and where he is from."

"I'm sorry, mother," Myrcella felt tears swell in her eyes.

"Don't cry!" Her mother corrected her. "Princesses don't cry!"

Unable to take the disappointment and hard words, Myrcella jumped off of her step where she had been standing, and dashed towards the exit, silently praying that Ser Arys would not bar her way. He didn't. She could hear mother exclaiming behind her, demanding she come back, but she couldn't. So she ran, barefoot and in her new dress.

She wiped away any lingering sign of tears from her eyes and scrubbed her cheeks. It wouldn't do if any castle servants or guards saw her distressed and disheveled.

"My princess?" Ser Arys stood beside her, the question in his tone-Where are we going?

"I could use some fresh air, Ser Arys." She wasn't ready to return to her mother.

"That sounds lovely, princess."

She sent her Kingsguard knight a smile before returning his handkerchief, "Thank you, Ser Arys."

"It's only a handkerchief," he deflected.

"No, not just that," she shook her head, "You let me leave." She knew she was right when she noticed he looked down at his armored boots. "You didn't stop me when you were supposed to."

"I thought it wiser not to interfere," Ser Arys picked his words carefully.

"I'll make sure to commend you to the Lord Commander," Myrcella could sense the discomfort in his tone. He feared a possible reprisal from her mother if she reported his inaction to her uncle, Ser Jaime.

"You have my thanks, princess." Ser Arys inclined his head towards her, "To the Godswood?"

"Yes," she agreed.

\--------------------

Thankfully, the Godswood wasn't crowded at this hour. Few from court were found mingling on the acre of land that consisted of elm, alder, and black cottonwood trees. She was familiar with the Godswood. She found it one of the nicer places if not the nicest place in not just the Red Keep, but within the city itself. She knew every stone path, every vantage point to see the Blackwater Rush at, where the best spots to sit in the shade were.

With this knowledge, she chose her path and began walking down it. She heard Ser Arys' metal boots hitting the gravel as he marched behind her. This place was nothing like the Godswood at Winterfell.

She had not ventured into Winterfell's Godswood during her brief stay. Robb had wanted to show it to her, but she had declined. Myrcella hadn't felt comfortable with the idea. It was said that was where the old gods stirred. Those weren't her gods. She followed the Seven and the Seven Pointed Star. It was in a Sept, not a Godswood where she worshipped. So she had kept her distance.

For now, she realized. That she could not avoid the Godswood of Winterfell forever. She'd one day be Lady of Winterfell, and she would need to be familiar with the entire castle including the Godswood. Myrcella had also been told that in the north, weddings took place in the Godswood in front of the heart tree.

The idea of traveling north again brought a nervous quiver to her insides. She felt the cold grip of apprehension claw at her when her mind drifted towards her future home and responsibilities. The long journey to the north when she had gone with her family allowed her a glimpse of the land she'd one day call home.

Myrcella could still remember the feeling of unease that coiled inside when her eyes took in the nothingness of the north. It was a cold wasteland that stretched as far as she could see. Their party went days without seeing people. It looked as if civilization had never touched this part of the kingdoms.

Voices broke through her thoughts on her future home, turning down her path; she spotted a pair of soldiers. She noticed the flayed man emblazoned on their leather jerkins. They were deep in conversation and hadn't seemed to notice her yet. She looked past them to see the heir to the Dreadfort. He was kneeling in front of the heart tree. He looked to be praying.

Here is the reason why I head north, she thought idly. Her father had been adamant in uniting their house with Lord Stark's. He had wanted a Stark bride for Joffrey since he had been robbed of his. Joffrey had been indifferent to father's talks and seemed uninterested about the idea of marrying a daughter of a savage.

However, her father's plan had been met with an immediate challenge. Sansa had already been betrothed. Father had pressed Lord Stark to break the betrothal between his house and house Bolton, but Lord Stark refused. Father had been mad. Cursing and drinking that night in his chambers about Lord Stark's stubbornness.

It was only at not being given to him did her older brother finally take notice of the beautiful oldest daughter of Lord and Lady Stark. Joffrey was never one to be denied something, Myrcella thought bitterly. She did not love or care for her older brother. There was no bond between them like the one she cherished with her younger brother, Tommen. Their bond had partially been formed to help each other avoid Joffrey's cruelty.

It was Lord Stark's refusal that brought mother's attention to the betrothal as well. She had taken it as a personal slight that her precious son had been denied by Lord Stark. A privilege these savages don't deserve! Her mother had raged. They should be thanking us for letting their daughter be Queen one day.

Mother was always quick to comfort and defend Joffrey. In mother's eyes, her precious Joffrey could do no wrong, her golden prince.

Myrcella could still remember her brother's reaction when father had relented with the betrothal between Joffrey and Sansa. He tried to look unbothered, but she knew her brother was angered and annoyed that he couldn't have her. Joffrey never liked hearing the word no. As a Crown Prince he was rarely refused something.

Her father had laughed it off, claiming it was the Stark's stubbornness. A trait he had grumbled about days ago, he now was toasting it. She suspected her father didn't put any real pressure on his oldest friend. As King he could've formally broken the betrothal between Houses Stark and Bolton, but she knew father well enough to know that he wouldn't have wanted to anger Lord Eddard Stark who he saw as his brother.

However, a new betrothal had been put forth one between her and Lord Stark's son and heir, Robb. Father had given her the news with a wide smile, wine clung to his breath. He told her: she was lucky; that there weren't better people then Starks in all of Westeros.

"Princess."

She blinked to see Domeric had risen from his kneeling position in front of the heart tree. "Lord Domeric," she greeted in kind. Going to close the distance between them, she took the time to inspect Sansa Stark's betrothed.

He was tall and slender. He was not handsome like her betrothed, Robb or Ser Loras. He had a plain face. His eyes were dark orbs that betrayed nothing. His face was still and impassive as if he was wearing a mask carved from ice. His brown hair was nicely combed, and fell just short of his shoulders.

He was dressed in a deep blue doublet, though the buttons were red. Blood drops, she realized, squashing the disgust that threatened to climb up her throat. A flayed man brooch was pinned at his collar to keep his equally blue cloak in place.

"No need for formalities, Lord Domeric," she tried to disarm him with a smile. She was not close with him, but that didn't mean that they needed to stand on such ceremony. After all, he'd be her good brother one day through their marriages: Hers with Robb and his with Sansa.

He looked at her, face unchanging. "Apologies, Princess," he declined stiffly, "But I fear it would be unwise to speak with such familiarity with you. Some would consider it a slight."

Myrcella had been caught off guard by his blunt refusal. She stopped herself from frowning openly. "Of course," She wanted to recover quickly, still smiling. "I understand."

She snuck a glance over at the two Bolton men who were with him and she was certain she caught a flicker of amusement come from their expressions. They probably think her some foolish southern girl. She'd one day be Lady of Winterfell, and they look at her like she's the court's fool. That brought a flame of annoyance to flicker within her insides.

"What do you make of King's Landing?"

"It is as I expected it," he answered neutrally.

She found his vagueness infuriating. Myrcella had remembered Domeric's interactions with Sansa, Robb, and their half brother, Jon at Winterfell. There, he had smiled and laughed easily and often, but not here, not with her. He treated her with cool courtesy and nothing more.

The shifting of Ser Arys' armor signaling his posture had stiffened was loud enough to get her attention. She saw the source of it, Lady who bounded through the Godswood. The direwolf was only continuing to grow. Lady made straight for Domeric, who greeted the direwolf far warmer than he had greeted Myrcella, minutes earlier. He crouched down, scratching the direwolf behind the ear in a spot which she seemed to like.

Lady proved to be the herald for the arrival of Sansa Stark. She looked radiant even in grey wool. A running direwolf stitched into the material joined with swirls of pale red and deep blue. Her copper curls shone in the sunlight, falling past her shoulders with only a few strands put into a simple braid.

"My lady," Domeric greeted her, his expression shifted immediately. His eyes that had been hard when speaking with Myrcella had softened when they looked at his betrothed. A smile cracked his indifference demeanor and improved his otherwise ordinary features. He took her in his arms and kissed her cheek which brought a slight blush to her face.

"Dom," she murmured in response, smiling at her betrothed. Her bright blue eyes then moved to Myrcella. She was quick to curtsey, "Princess Myrcella."

"Lady Sansa," Myrcella replied, a hint of mischief dripped into her tone at the formalities they put on one another, a jest between them that never got old.

An amused Sansa moved over towards Myrcella, clasping her hands in hers, "What a wonderful dress, Myrcella!" Sansa's eyes looked her over.

"Thank you," Myrcella brightened at the compliment. She had nearly forgotten that she was still wearing her new dress. "It's for the tourney."

"It's beautiful," Sansa complimented her, "You'd have my brother's undivided attention if he saw you in this." Sansa's eyes danced mischievously.

Myrcella felt heat creep into her cheeks, and for a pleasant flutter to fill her insides upon thinking of Robb seeing and approving of her in this dress. She couldn't stop the smile that formed on her lips at the image.

Putting aside those enticing thoughts, Myrcella looked to see Sansa had gone over to where the two Bolton men were standing. The men stood straighter in her presence and were quick to bow their heads to the future Lady of the Dreadfort. Sansa knew their names and asked after them and their families. She even laughed at one of their jokes. They had looked at Myrcella like she was insipid, but to Sansa it was clear how highly they regarded her. She had earned their loyalty.

It got Myrcella thinking. What had she done with the Stark men? The men who came down with Lord Stark's household would one day serve her and Robb, and she hadn't even given them a second thought. She would one day be the Lady of Winterfell and Myrcella hadn't even tried or bothered to speak or meet with them.

It was clear to her now. Upon seeing how Sansa treated and spoke with the Bolton men that Myrcella needed to try a similar approach. She couldn't stop but think how Robb would react if she could impress him when she returned to Winterfell already knowing and being familiar with not just the north itself, but the Stark household.

I'll prove myself worthy to be the next Lady of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first Myrcella Chapter in this story. Let me know if you liked it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and reviewing,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	23. Domeric

"I feel as if we ride further and further away from the capital each day, Lord Domeric."

Domeric smiled at Captain Rylen's observation. They had returned to the stables of the Red Keep after another morning ride. It was one of the few ways he could tolerate being in King's Landing. He yearned to be far away from the smells and noises that plagued this city. So he took to riding out. Exploring the lands around it, and had already found some peaceful spots along the Blackwater.

There were few things Domeric Bolton liked more than riding.

"Do you protest, Captain?" Domeric turned to him. "You could always stay here while I rode and I could take other guards?"

"That would be unnecessary, Lord Domeric," Captain Rylen said, "I prefer the riding to the waiting."

"Fair enough," Domeric chuckled, knowing his captain of the guard had no love for this city either and didn't mind the long rides they took every morning since they had arrived to the capital. He left the stables with Captain Rylen and his three other Bolton men-at-arms trailing behind as they made their way back towards the Red Keep and to the Tower of the Hand.

"Are you prepared for the tournament?"

"Aye," Domeric believed he was ready to break lances with the best riders that the kingdoms had to offer. He had been training and riding hard since he had been told by his father that he was to enter the tournament.

When he wasn't training, he was watching his opponents. Trying to pick up on their tactics and discern for weaknesses. The training yard of the Red Keep provided him an opportunity to study some of his more dangerous opponents. There, he watched many knights of the Stormlands, Westerlands, a few of the Reach, and that of the Kingsguard prepare themselves for the Tourney of the Hand.

It was in watching Ser Jaime Lannister did Domeric notice how the knight tended to shift in his seat just before lances clashed. The Kingslayer did the skill deftly and had used it to unhorse many men he went up against. Domeric had already formulated his counter to this particular challenge if he advanced far enough to have to face the Kingsguard knight.

"Good lad," Captain Rylen sounded pleased, "You carry the honor of the north with ya, Lord Domeric."

Words not to be taken lightly, Domeric understood. He was to be the only northern nobleman who would enter the lists. He heard of a few guards from Lord Stark's household may take part, but it would be to him, the heir to the Dreadfort where the commoners and nobles alike would look to.

Let them see, he would not allow himself to be bothered by the attention. He was aware of the expectations his father had put upon his shoulders when he deemed it a worthy endeavor for Domeric to take part in. Why else would his father commission expensive tournament armor for him to wear?

"I will show the south the might of the north," Domeric promised, hoping to make an example out of the Knight of Flowers.

His words earned him a ripple of agreement between the Bolton men who trailed behind him and Captain Rylen.

The Captain of his Guard let out a raspy laugh. "Bold words, Lord Domeric," a grin stretched across his scarred face, "but I've seen you ride." He shook his head in dismay. "You were born on a saddle it seems."

Domeric inclined his head at the compliment. "You honor me, Captain."

He had been riding as long as he could remember. His mother had gotten him his first pony when he was still a boy at the Dreadfort. While his Aunt, had given him his first true horse when he was her page at Barrowton. Domeric remembered fondly the rides he'd take through the Barrowlands and the Rills. His Aunt Barbrey had teased him saying he spent more time atop his horse then he did on his own two feet.

It wasn't until he fostered at Redfort in the Vale did he realize his potential in jousting. Lord Redfort had deemed him a natural and that there were tourney victories in his future. In those three years, Domeric trained vigorously to combine his talent with the lance with his riding to form an imposing threat.

Talent that had yet to be truly tested, he reminded himself. This would be the first tournament he'd partake in. Regardless, of his inexperience, his confidence did not waver in his ability. Domeric was ready to test his mettle with the supposed best fighters that the realms had to offer.

His musings were interrupted at the sound of encroaching footsteps. Domeric looked up and immediately had to hide his frown when he spotted the Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon coming towards them. His sworn shield, Sandor Clegane was absent, but following behind the Prince was Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard as well as a handful of Lannister men.

How the Kingsguard has fallen, Domeric had seen them in the training yard. He had read much of the fabled order of knights whose sole duty was in protecting the King and the royal family. He knew many of the famous names that had once donned the white cloak. To see what it has become was rather disappointing.

To think that this Order was once filled with men of exceptional skill and valor such as Ser Aemon the Dragonknight and Ser Duncan the Tall. Now, its ranks were polluted. Domeric was surprised their pale cloaks hadn't darkened at being tainted with men unworthy of the honor.

Despite his respect for the history of the Kingsguard he was still wary of them. No one could question the skill of The Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne or Ser Barristan Selmy. Yet these supposed great men did nothing as the Mad King murdered the Warden of the North and his heir.

How much bloodshed could've been avoided if they had put a stop to the madness before it tore Westeros apart? Mayhaps, it was just the north in him that was already naturally critical and suspicious of knights and their supposed value and valor within the south.

"My prince," Domeric stopped and bowed his head out of obligation then any actual respect for the heir to the Iron Throne.

The eldest son of King Robert and Queen Cersei didn't bother to hide his contempt for Domeric. He was dressed in red and golden silks, a roaring lion embroidered into his finery. He wore several rings on his fingers, and a faint perfume clung to him.

He dressed more like a princess then a prince, Domeric thought wryly.

"You smell of horse," Joffrey brought a hand to his face as if trying to wave away the smell. His words and gesture got laughter out of his Lannister guards.

"My pardons," Domeric apologized, "I was not expecting the honor of your presence."

"I didn't ask for your excuses," Joffrey chided him. "Besides, the Red Keep seems plagued with the smell of northerners since my father asked Lord Stark to be his Hand."

The Prince's insults of the north caused a soft murmuring from his men who stood behind Domeric. Thankfully, it seemed Joffrey was ignorant of their reaction.

"It does not matter it was hardly noticeable due to the presence of Lady Sansa." His green eyes glistened greedily, and a smirk played at his lips. "She provides such lovely company."

Domeric's smile curdled. His hand twitched, urging to go for his sword that hung loosely in its scabbard, but he stopped himself. He would not allow himself to get baited by the Crown Prince.

"She was wearing quite the dress," Joffrey was looking for a reaction, "that gave wonderful peeks of her creamy skin and womanly curves." He licked his lips. "Quite the woman you have there, Bolton. Makes me think she's wasted on someone like you."

His gut roiled in indignation. It took every ounce of his self control to restrain his fists from meeting the Prince's face. Domeric smothered the glare he wanted to level at him. Fighting to keep his emotions controlled and to convey a look of indifference that was cracking with each passing taunt directed at his betrothed and the insinuation that seeped with them.

"She needs a lion not a flayed man," the Crown Prince boasted.

The Lannister men chuckled and voiced their agreement at their prince's words. While the Bolton men mumbled and glared back at the insults being given to the future Lady of the Dreadfort.

"She is not yours," Domeric felt the burning rage that lashed and churned inside his stomach.

"I am the Prince!" He shook an angry finger at him. "I can do what I want!"

"There was another Prince who thought he could take what was not his," Domeric said softly. "Mayhaps you should ask your father what happened to him."

"You dare," Joffrey's face darkened in outrage.

"You threaten the Prince in front of his Kingsguard?" Ser Meryn stepped forward, a hand on the pommel of his sword, his sworn brother, Ser Boros mirrored his movement.

Captain Rylen and the Bolton men reacted immediately, moving forward in front of Domeric, hands on their weapons, poised to draw them.

"I beg your pardons, Ser Trant," Captain Rylen's eyes bore into the Kingsguard knight. "But we cannot allow you to threaten our liege lord."

Ser Meryn was stunned. He turned his droopy eyes away from Domeric and towards his men. A heavy tension filled the room, like thick black smoke. Men on both sides looked ready to come to blows in protecting the honor of their respected liege lords.

"This is the Crown Prince you are speaking to," Ser Meryn said, like anyone in the corridor needed the reminder.

"I'm aware," Captain Rylen said dryly, "But our oaths are to Lord Bolton and our loyalty is to the Dreadfort."

A swell of pride filled Domeric upon seeing his men step forward to protect him. Their honor and courage were unwavering in the face of two Kingsguard knights and a handful of Lannister men. That being said, the last thing Domeric wanted was for a sword fight to erupt in the halls of the Red Keep.

"It wasn't a threat," Domeric needed to diffuse the situation, "Just a history lesson that our Prince shouldn't forget." He stepped forward putting a calming hand on Captain Rylen's shoulders. "Now, if you excuse us, my prince, my men and I are tired and ornery from our morning ride."

Silence met Domeric's words as Joffrey who had slunk back behind his men once the Bolton men stepped forward, scowled where he stood in the shadows of his guards.

"My Prince," Ser Boros' voice came out nasally, "The Queen is expecting you."

Domeric had heard whispers within the Red Keep that Ser Blount was one of the Queen's creatures. He was not surprised to see him use the Queen's name to try to invoke the Crown Prince in leaving more swiftly before they were delayed any further. Not to mention, it was apparent that Ser Boros was not keen on a fight. He looked at Captain Rylen and the other Bolton men with a touch of trepidation. It was said the man was a coward dressed up as a knight.

"Be gone," Joffrey declared, "I wouldn't want to deny my uncle or my dog the chance of humiliating you at the tournament for the entire realm to see." At his words, the knights and Lannister men stood down, and stepped aside allowing Domeric and his Bolton men to move past.

He chose to ignore the Prince's words. Biting his tongue to keep from responding at how the Prince hadn't the courage to even enter the tourney. Instead, Domeric focused his efforts on just leaving Joffrey and his company of brutes behind as quickly as he could.

Domeric eyed the men warily as he led his men through, his shoulders were tensed and hands clenched. A sigh of relief passed his lips when they were finally clear.

"And Bolton," Joffrey's voice drawled across the corridor. "Send my regards to your betrothed." A haughty laugh from the prince followed as he led his men out of sight.

That pierced Domeric's calm demeanor- the final insult. He couldn't contain the apprehension that spread through him, a slight chill just beneath his skin.

"Come on," Domeric urged his men forward. There was nothing he wanted more then to see Sansa.

He ran towards the Tower of the Hand and climbed the steps before reaching her chambers. Domeric didn't stop to knock, opening the door, to see Sansa sitting at her table working on her needlework with Septa Mordane sitting beside her.

Instant relief came to him upon looking to see Sansa looked well and unbothered.

"Dom?" Sansa's blue eyes widened at his sudden, haggard presence.

"Lord Domeric!" Septa began to scold, but he ignored her.

He moved across the chambers and without speaking pulled Sansa into his arms from where she sat and held her close.

"Dom?" Sansa said again, "What's wrong?"

From the corner of his eye, he could see Captain Rylen politely escorting a fuming Septa Mordane from Sansa's chambers who seemed irate at being put out, though her tone quieted when the Captain of Domeric's guard told her something before the door closed behind them.

He leaned back, so that he could meet her eyes, but his arms remained around her. "Has the Prince come to see you?"

"No," She frowned. "What happened?"

He inwardly chided himself for letting himself be fooled by Joffrey. He should've known better then to have allowed the prince to goad him so easily. His love for Sansa had allowed his judgment to be clouded and had made him unable to properly see through the lies of Joffrey's boasts. Domeric could've easily been provoked into doing something foolish or dangerous or have run into some sort of trap because of his overwhelming concern for Sansa.

Don't allow your sentiment for the girl affect your judgment; his father's cold words whispered their warning in his head.

Domeric pushed out a breath of annoyance, not wanting to dwell on his father at the moment.

"I'm fine," he assured her, smiling to prove his point. "I'm fine."

Sansa wasn't fooled. Her eyes studying him closely, a frown came to her lips, "Dom," her voice gentle, but he heard the strength behind it, and what went unsaid.

"The Prince," Domeric muttered, feeling a pinch of pain flare up in his head at the reminder of Joffrey."He said things, lies."

"About me?" Sansa's face creased with worry, but understanding shone in her blue eyes.

"Aye," Domeric ground out the word bitterly. "I thought, I feared he'd threaten or hurt you."

"My constant protector," she cupped his face with her soft hands, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips that had the power to instantly quell the annoyance that had been bubbling up in his gut. He cherished the feeling of her lips on his until it ended.

When she drew back, her nose scrunched up. "You smell," she gave him a teasing smile.

In that moment all Domeric could do was laugh.

 

\---------------

The next morning Domeric found himself breaking his fast in the Small Hall. Though, it was hardly small. It was only called that to distinguish it from the Great Hall where the Kings of Westeros could feast a thousand. This Small Hall was a long room with high vaunted ceilings and bench space to sit two hundred comfortably at its trestle tables.

Sitting across from him was his beautiful betrothed, Sansa who looked radiant. She was wearing a dress in the southern fashion, that wasn't as conservative as the northern style. It gave him various glimpses of her creamy white skin. He found it very distracting.

"You are beautiful this morning, my lady," Domeric declared at their table.

"It seems your eyes approve of my dress."

Domeric felt heat come to his face as he looked down at his plate only to hear Sansa's giggling. He looked up to see her bright blue eyes shining towards him. "I'll admit that out of all the southern styles I must get use to that your dresses will be one of the easier ones."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head before going back to their food. They were breaking fast on black bread, boiled goose eggs, and a rasher of bacon. He washed his food down with freshly squeezed juice from some fruits that came from the Reach.

"I found a nice spot on the Blackwater on my morning ride yesterday," Domeric looked up from his plate of bacon and eggs. "I thought we could have a picnic there?"

"That sounds wonderful," Sansa rewarded his suggestion with a smile.

"Good," Domeric was pleased she'd liked the idea. "I'll talk to Lord Stark about it and see what men he can spare for the ride." He knew Lord Stark had sent some of his men to help Janos Slynt and the gold cloaks to deal with the pressing safety concerns that had risen with so many people having come for the tournament.

Domeric would bring Bolton men with him for his picnic with Lady Sansa. However, Lord Stark as her father had the right to want to bring his own men to go with them to act as supervising chaperones. He would not begrudge Lord Stark for his protectiveness of his oldest daughter.

"Mayhaps, we could go after the tournament?" By then, Lord Stark's household shouldn't be too badly stretched and the men he loaned to the gold cloaks would be returned to him.

Sansa hummed her agreement, as she spread some berry jam onto her bread. They ate in relative silence exchanging smiles and the occasional words and Domeric savored every moment of it.

This is our future, he realized. The meals they'd take as husband and wife in the great hall of the Dreadfort, as Lord and Lady or within their own chambers.

Soon, he reminded himself. He waited anxiously for the day to come when he received word from his father. Telling him it's time to return. It's time for him to marry the woman he loves and that it's time to leave this wretched city.

"Dom?"

"Yes?" He blinked to see Sansa was watching him closely.

"What were you thinking about?"

"What do you mean?"

"You had this very silly grin," she told him, amusement bubbled up in her voice, "and you looked quite pleased with yourself."

"I did?" Domeric couldn't help but laugh.

"Yes, you did," she confirmed, "what was it?"

"I was just reflecting on how I'm betrothed to the most beautiful woman in Westeros," he grinned at her, "How can I not be pleased with myself?"

She blushed at his compliment, "You could've made a wonderful bard, Dom."

"You honor me, my love." He honestly thought he'd make a lousy one since he couldn't sing if his life depended on it. However, her compliment laced with such sincerity and love couldn't dampen his blunt honesty.

"Will you play me something before your morning ride and my lessons with Steward Poole?" she asked hopefully.

"Always," Domeric promised, "How go your lessons with the Steward?"

Sansa sighed, "Slowly," she sipped juice from her glass, "Arya always was better at numbers then me," she confessed, wistfulness crept into her tone at the mention of her sister who she dearly missed. "But, I'm improving."

"That's wonderful," Domeric praised.

"It's been a bit easier for me to grasp with Steward Poole using real life lessons," she said, "its had me think more about running a household and being prepared for the responsibilities that will unfold." Determination shone vividly in her eyes, "But I'll be ready when the time comes."

"Do not fret, my lady," Domeric knew she was worried about the tasks that were waiting for her at the Dreadfort when they finally wed and returned to Domeric's ancestral seat. "No one is expecting you to run the Bolton household the day you arrive."

"But I will," Sansa told him confidently.

Domeric was once more struck by his betrothed's poise and resolve. He had to remind himself that he wasn't marrying some dainty southern flower, but a she-wolf of Winterfell.

"You will be a blessing to the Dreadfort, my love."

She opened her mouth to reply when her eyes went past him and widened slightly.

Confused, he looked over his shoulder to see a new guest coming into the Small Hall. It was Lord Baelish, a man Domeric hadn't formerly met, but had seen a few times within the Red Keep. He was a short man with a pointed beard with streaks of silver in his hair. He had laughing grey-green eyes. He wore a silver mockingbird that fastened his cloak.

"Lord Baelish," he rose to greet the Master of the Coin.

"Lord Domeric." He bowed his head towards him before turning to Sansa, "Lady Sansa."

"Lord Baelish," she gracefully stood from her seat and offered him a curtsey.

"It's wonderful to finally meet you, Lady Sansa," Lord Baelish said. "Though we're hardly strangers," he told her, "I'm sure you've heard stories about me."

Domeric was surprised by the man's brazenness. He could only wonder had Lord Baelish spoke with such casualness and self-worth when addressing Lord Stark.

"I have," Sansa didn't allow herself to be bothered by Lord Baelish's words or tones in which he spoke about her mother's family.

In times like this Domeric could only admire his betrothed; her composure, her civility never faltered. That ability to deceive those around her with her charm and courtesies.

It reminded him of a saying he heard his father use to say, Power tastes best when sweetened by courtesy, Domeric believed that was Sansa.

That seemed to please Lord Baelish greatly. The corner of his lips curved upwards upon hearing that both Lady Stark had spoken of him and that Sansa was aware of who he was. While in the Vale, Domeric had heard stories of Lord Baelish's infatuation with Lady Catelyn Stark before she had been married to Lord Stark.

"You look just like her," His eyes never left Sansa's face.

Domeric didn't like the look he saw in Littlefinger's eyes as his attention remained on Sansa. He clenched his fork tightly into his palm. Nor did he appreciate him referring to how Sansa looked like Lady Stark, the very woman who Lord Baelish had challenged her betrothed to a duel for the right for her hand. Brandon Stark had bloodied him badly in the duel, nearly killing him if the stories were to be believed.

"Lord Baelish," Domeric called the man's attention to him, "Before I went to the Vale, my Lord Father had me memorize every house in the Vale from high lord to landed knight." He was pleased to see Littlefinger finally look away from Sansa and at him, "And I remember the sigil of House Baelish." Domeric fought the triumphant smirk that wanted to spread across his face when he saw his words got a slight reaction out of the Master of Coin.

"It was a grey stone head with fiery eyes on a light green field," Domeric's eyes went from Littlefinger's eyes to the man's pin of the silver mockingbird.

"You're a clever boy," Lord Baelish complimented, "I can see why your father would want to put you on display here in the south. To show the realm the future of House Bolton," His eyes swept over Domeric's appearance, "Not all of our families can have such creative blazons like the Boltons." He smiled, but it didn't reach his laughing grey-green eyes.

"I fashioned this as my personal crest," Littlefinger explained, tapping to the mockingbird pin, "I'm the only man in this city who wears it," he told them, "but that doesn't mean I'm not without friends."

Domeric understood the unspoken threat in Lord Baelish's words. He had been warned by his father of the influence that the Master of Coin wielded and that he didn't need a holdfast to be dangerous. His currency besides coin was information and favors and he had ample amount of both.

A low growl cut through the growing silence, three heads turned to see Lady had found her way into the small hall. The direwolf's eyes were on the Master of Coin.

Domeric couldn't stop the smile that came to him when he saw Littlefinger pale at the sight of the direwolf.

"Some pet, Lady Sansa," he tried to recover. "It's fortunate that not all families have pets taken after their sigils," He said sarcastically, "Unless you packed some flayed skins for your journey south, Lord Domeric?"

"I may pack some for the journey back," Domeric muttered under his breath.

Lady snapped and snarled as if detecting his growing annoyance towards Lord Baelish.

"If you'll excuse me," Littlefinger backed away with as much dignity as he could while avoiding the annoyed, growling direwolf. "I must speak with your father, Lady Sansa." He turned to Domeric only for a quick heartbeat, "Lord Domeric," before his eyes went back to Sansa; he bowed his head to her and left the hall as hastily as he could.

"You're my hero, Lady," Domeric praised the direwolf, bringing her attention to him as she padded over. He was quick to scoop up a piece of bacon and present it to the direwolf as her reward. She took it delicately from his fingers, her rough tongue licking his palm. He chuckled, petting her with his free hand before wiping his hands on a kerchief.

As far as Domeric was concerned he couldn't leave this city soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was pleased and humbled by your feedback with the last chapter. It was all so encouraging, you have my gratitude. 
> 
> And I am happy to say that Myrcella will have more chapters to come in this story. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and reviewing,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	24. Jon

"I'm starting to worry that you find your sword more interesting than me."

"This is not my sword." Jon corrected him.

"I'm sure the brothers of the Night's Watch took their Lord Commander to Maester Aemon as soon as you left to make sure his senses haven't left him since he gave you that sword," Tyrion quipped.

"I don't deserve it," Jon said numbly. Longclaw the ancestral sword of House Mormont, a valyrian steel sword lay across his lap. The bear pommel was staring up at him, eyes dark and accusing.

"No, you don't," Tyrion agreed all too quickly. "I'm not sure you'd find a soul from Dorne to the Wall that would think you worthy of such a sword."

Jon frowned at the blunt truth that Lord Lannister presented in front of him, and made no effort to try to argue. They had left the Wall and Jon's dreams of joining the Watch less than a week ago. Yet, with each step he took away from Castle Black the weight of Longclaw grew heavier.

The two were alone at the campfire, huddled on opposing sides to take shelter from the cold, biting winds. They were still too north and isolated to find hearth and roof. Jon had already made his tent, a dirty and flimsy thing but tied to a crumbling wall from a ruined holdfast to serve suitably.

They had traveled with a wandering crow, a man named Yoren, who traveled the kingdoms in search for recruits for the Wall. He claimed to know every dungeon and cell intimately of the highest and lowest throughout the lands as they always took him there when he came seeking new men. Yoren was currently overseeing the set up of his encampment with three other men of the Watch who Lord Commander Mormont had tasked to escort Lord Tyrion back to Winterfell safely.

"I…I should've refused," Jon said softly. "I did refuse."

"You want to go back to return it?" Tyrion asked, more than a hint of disbelief in his voice. "You might be the first man to refuse a valyrian steel sword."

Jon didn't speak. He kept his attention on the fire that separated them.

"Mayhaps that's why Commander Mormont gifted you that sword," Tyrion said softly, "your refusal to accept such a gift speaks to your character, Lord Snow."

There was no mocking edge when Lord Tyrion spoke the moniker Lord Snow, but what sounded like respect.

"He saw something in you."

That got Jon to look up at those mismatched eyes of Tyrion Lannister. They unnerved him. Not because of the difference in their color, but of the gaze they cast, the sort of look that made Jon feel as if he was being read like one of Lord Tyrion's books. His thoughts and emotions dried ink on withered pages that Lannister could read and understand without difficulty.

"What?" He couldn't help but ask.

"Potential," he answered simply, "He wanted to make you his personal steward."

"I wanted to be a ranger."

"And I want a dragon," Tyrion laughed, than he looked around expectantly for his dragon to appear, before turning back to Jon. "He probably planned on grooming you to be a leader in the Watch some day."

Jon frowned. "How do you know this?"

"You forget I dined and drank with him at most meals and was brought to his quarters several times to discuss matters for the Watch and how the kingdoms could help," he shrugged, "Your name came up once or twice."

"I didn't know," Jon mumbled.

"Why would you?" Tyrion replied, "You weren't suppose to."

Confusion wrought his insides as he turned away from Lord Tyrion and back towards Longclaw which remained on his lap. He hadn't thought the Lord Commander had even noticed him during his brief time at the Wall. Now, it seemed he had and had made plans to incorporate Jon into the hierarchy of the Watch in hopes of him playing a lead role some day.

The disappointment the Lord Commander must have felt when Jon told him of his intentions of not taking the Black and leaving.

The Watch wasn't what it was suppose to be, Jon reminded himself. The rapers, the thieves, and the bullies that filled the ranks of the sworn brotherhood, why would he want to join them?

You're a bastard, the voice reminded him. What gives you the right to judge them? Jon bristled, that had nothing to do with the cold winds.

"He gave you that sword because he knew you'd return with it," If Tyrion sensed Jon's discomfort, he didn't say anything. "You're a Stark after all."

"I'm a Snow," Jon corrected him.

"True, you do not have your father's name, but you have his blood, his look, and were taught alongside his true born sons to remember honor."

There was no argument there so Jon kept quiet; pondering his words.

"You may be a young man, but you are use to the shadows and not the attention."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Lord Commander Mormont took a risk to give you that sword with the slim hope that the gesture could endear the Watch to you."

"I know that." Jon had seen the Lord Commander's plot even when he was presented with the sword back at Castle Black. Yet, it still didn't make him feel any better. This wasn't his sword to accept, but he had anyways with no intention of wanting to take the Black.

"Yes, and you know how valuable those swords are," Tyrion observed, "a more prideful young man would boast of such a fine weapon and gather attention and proclaim great deeds he'd wish to accomplish with a valyrian steel sword. But the only thing that foolish man would get is his throat cut and his sword stolen."

Tyrion's face glowed in the flames, giving him a haunting look that made Jon want to look away, "By giving you that sword he put a target on you to go along with the honor of wielding it."

Jon hadn't thought of it like that. He had noticed members of the Watch glaring at him and frowning when he left Castle Black, but he had thought it had to do with him leaving the Wall, and not with the sword he carried. But now he saw sense in his friend's words. He was quick to put away the sheathed valyrian steel sword as if expecting a thief to appear in their camp that instant to try to take it.

He would have to be careful. Jon would likely need to keep it sheathed. He couldn't bring attention to either himself or the sword he carried. That would be easy, Jon realized, he was use to slinking in the shadows to avoid the eyes of others.

It had been one of the unexpected skills he had picked up living in Winterfell, he thought bitterly, having to learn it when he was little to try to avoid earning the ire of Lady Stark.

"Despite the obvious flaws in the plan, I must say it's a bit ingenious on the Old Bear's part," Tyrion said.

"What do you mean?"

"He gave you a sword that he had no use for and despised because of what his son did," Tyrion explained, "Yet in talking with the Lord Commander it seemed clear that his sister, Lady Maege of Bear Island insisted he keep the sword and not return it to Bear Island until his Watch had ended." He said the last part with a twitch of his lips, "You northerners are determined in your duty and insistent upon your honor."

"I'm not sure you could give the north a finer compliment, Lord Tyrion."

Lord Tyrion chuckled at that, raising his wineskin in toast, "To the north's honor and duty." He then drank a long sip from it before standing up and handing Jon the wineskin.

Jon nodded his thanks before repeating Lord Tyrion's toast and drank from the wineskin, grimaced at the strong and bitter taste, but was thankful at the warm sensation that went down his throat before settling in his gut.

Their conversation broken up when Tyrion's men returned as did Yoren. The Wandering crow and Lord Tyrion were quick to strike up a conversation that quickly led to japes and crude stories.

That had been Jon's cue to leave. He made to stand up.

"Leaving already, Snow?" Yoren asked, "I was getting to the good part."

"Yes," Jon answered stiffly. He had no interest in hearing about Yoren's crude jokes. They reminded him too much of the ones Theon would tell. He turned to Lord Tyrion, "Thank you, my lord for your help."

Tyrion smiled up at him, "Always a pleasure, Lord Snow." He then raised his wineskin in salute.

Jon nodded his thanks once more before going to his tent. He was pleasantly surprised to see Ghost was already there, lying quiet and peaceful. "Good hunt, boy?" He scratched his direwolf behind the ears. Ghost made no sound to answer, only raising his head to acknowledge Jon's return.

"We're going to see the others soon, boy." Jon wondered how Ghost would fare when they returned to Winterfell and were reunited with both Jon's family and Ghost's. He was curious at seeing how his direwolf, the runt of the litter would fare now with his littermates.

Settling in under his blankets, he was quick to also put Longclaw beneath them, remembering Lord Tyrion's warning of the sword and the interest it would get from others. Ghost didn't deign to move from his position atop the blankets, making Jon adjust to the hulking direwolf that stubbornly lay across his makeshift bed. He was not about to complain about Ghost's presence because Jon could feel and appreciate the warmth that radiated from the direwolf seeping through Jon's blankets to warm him.

He stifled a yawn and closed his eyes, but his mind remained on his conversation with Lord Tyrion.

When this journey is over I will return it, Jon had vowed. I will travel with Lord Tyrion to the capital and Oldtown and then back to Winterfell for Domeric and Sansa's wedding. From there he'd go back to the Wall and return Longclaw to the Lord Commander.

Mayhaps, his siblings would want to come too. They had all talked about seeing the Wall, and Jon thought that by going back to Castle Black with his true brothers and sister then it'd be easier for him to decline the Lord Commander's offer of reconsidering joining the Night's Watch.

The last thoughts he had before drifting off to sleep were that of him and his siblings at the Wall enthralled at the impressive marvel, with all of them happy and together. That was enough to put a smile on his lips in the cold darkness of the night.

\----------------

It had been raining on and off throughout the day.

Jon found himself not caring about being caught up in the rain. He enjoyed the soft, warm raindrops that fell on him. It was different from the cold rains of the north that was quick to leave you shivering. Everything about this land seemed so different then the North.

Sparse and grey, Jon knew that one could travel for days in the north without seeing another person. Here in the Riverlands, Jon couldn't recall a single day of their journey since they crossed the Neck that they hadn't seen a small holdfast or town.

The Riverlands were a sprawling, populous area of lush forests, flowing rivers, golden plains, it was all great sights to take in. Colors dotted the landscape and Jon wanted to see all of it. His head on a swivel, turning left and right at trying to appreciate the sights and beauty that surrounded him.

He was not the only one, Ghost often left their party to explore the countryside. Ghost had left this morning shortly after they broke camp, and Jon had yet to see his direwolf since. He wasn't worried, knowing Ghost would come back. He always did.

Taking in the Trident that ran parallel to the road, the raging rapids and flowing crystal clear water, Jon stayed his horse so that he could simply gaze at it, finding a sense of peace settle over him at watching it. Not for the first time during his journey south with Lord Tyrion did he know that he made the right decision to accept his generous offer.

To think I could be at Castle Black right now, he snorted in amusement at the image his mind's eye conjured: Dressed in black, cold, and miserable under the hateful dark eyes of Ser Alliser Thorne.

Here he rode with Lord Tyrion Lannister, a wandering crow, and two Lannister men: Morrec and Jyck. Who proved to be reasonable company, and to Jon's surprise treated him fairly and even better than some of the sworn brothers of the Night's Watch he had encountered during his brief time at Castle Black.

Jon was of the north. It would always be his home. It was in his blood. It was even in his name. Yet, that didn't mean he couldn't admire this new land. It was only in leaving the north could Jon truly appreciate the land he knew all his life.

That thought reminded Jon of something his Lord Father would say, a man can't appreciate the fire in his hearth without the cold. Without the rain, a man can't appreciate the roof over his head. And without coming to see the other realms, could Jon be grateful for his home and the land he came from.

The reminder of his Lord Father changed Jon's mood in an instant. Instead of curiosity at seeing the land around him, anxiety filled him at the land he had yet to see-the capital. It was there that he was going to reunite with his father. It was there that he hoped his Lord Father would honor his promise and finally tell Jon about his mother.

With every step he moved closer to getting the answer to a question that has bothered him since he was old enough to remember. A feeling of apprehension coiled in his insides at the fear that when he arrived to the city he would not get the welcome or the answers he sought.

Jon tried to remember his brother's confidence that was instilled in him about their Lord Father being a man of his word and telling Jon the truth about his mother. The mention of Robb stirred another thought that he had been wrestling with since his brief, but emotional stop at Winterfell. The warnings his brother gave him of the Lannisters and the implication of their hand in trying to kill Bran, not once, but twice.

He had been furious when Robb had revealed to him in the Godswood that an assassin had come in the night to try to kill Bran. What sort of man would try to kill an injured, sleeping child? It made Jon sick. He thought the mauling the man got from Summer wasn't enough. All of the direwolves should've had a turn with him. When you mess with one wolf you mess with the pack.

That's what they were. Robb, Sansa, Arya, had told him that enough times, that he was their brother and their blood. He was one of them-a wolf. And they were his pack.

Learning that the Lannisters may be guilty in Bran's injury had been difficult for Jon to grasp. Here, he had been traveling with one. Lord Tyrion had shown him kindness, courtesies, and even a way to leave the Wall and a chance to see Westeros. Jon felt himself indebted to his generosity, so to learn that Tyrion's family had possibly made a move against his family was deeply troubling.

Jon knew where his loyalties were. He had told Robb as much when he said he still planned on traveling with Lord Tyrion. Now, he was given an opportunity to find himself in a Lannister inner-circle and though he knew he wouldn't be told anything directly, it still gave him an opportunity to discover the truth.

He was a bastard. People ignored bastards. He'd use that to his advantage to try to uncover a Lannister plot in the capital or their possible involvement at Bran's fall. Jon had no reason to distrust Robb's warnings, but he couldn't ignore his gut that was telling him that if there was a Lannister scheme, Lord Tyrion was sure to be innocent of it; which meant that it would involve either or both of Tyrion's older siblings, one a member of the Kingsguard and the other who was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Here we are."

Lord Tyrion's voice brought Jon out of his tumultuous thoughts. He looked forward to see their traveling party had arrived outside a very large inn. It resembled more a holdfast then inn, towering over them with pale stone and giant turrets.

"It looks busy," Jon noted, in his thoughts he had drifted back from their small party, as he brought his horse closer to the others. The stables seemed filled to the brim with horses, stable boys, and fretting lords and knights who wanted their horses well tended to. He had yet to go in, but he could hear the raucous voices that carried out from the Inn's dining hall.

"Mayhaps, we should try elsewhere?" Jon suggested.

"You forget who you're traveling with," Tyrion turned to regard him, "a crowded inn is no problem for a Lannister."

"You mean to swindle someone out of their room?" Jon understood what his friend was referring to. After all, in traveling with Lord Tyrion he saw how persuasive the dwarf could be. "Like Lann the Clever with Casterly Rock."

"You know my family's history," Tyrion seemed impressed, "And swindle is such an ugly word. I prefer convincing with a slight edge." He then looked out at the inn. "And this is hardly Casterly Rock."

Jon chuckled, "No, it isn't, my lord."

He had heard stories of Casterly Rock from Tyrion during their travels south. Jon had been curious and awed by the descriptions Lord Tyrion would tell of his home and the Lannisters' ancestral seat. It sounded like a sight to behold. Tyrion's words inspired a palace of wonder and riches that Jon's imagination was hopeless in trying to properly construct.

"Are you coming, Jon?"

"I'll join you shortly, my lord." Jon had dismounted from his horse to allow the stable boys from the inn to take and see properly housed.

"Very well," Tyrion waddled off, talking to Yoren while Morrec and Jyck trailed behind them, "I'll save you a seat and a cup of ale."

He was in no hurry to enter the inn. Jon had noticed several colorful banners displayed on horses and arms and knew to expect quite a bit of nobility and knights to be seated and eating inside. He had enough experience with southern knights and nobility during their brief stay at Winterfell where many had come up with the Royal Party.

A sight I must get use to, Jon was going to the capital. Southern lords and knights were flocking to King's Landing for the Tournament of the Hand. Jon had seen several on their travels down the king's road and it seemed to be discussed at every stop in the past few days.

When I go to the capital, I will be surrounded by them, best prepare myself with this small sample. With a resigned realization, Jon moved towards the inn. He was quick to make sure Longclaw was out of sight, his dark cloak concealing his sword's scabbard. Jon didn't want any unwanted attention lingering on him or the valyrian steel sword he carried.

He was near the door when he heard a voice he hadn't thought he'd hear. A voice he hadn't wanted to hear.

"Lannister honor," Jon felt tightness in his chest at hearing Lady Stark's voice. "His dagger left these scars. The blade he sent to open my son's throat."

Not her, he tried to clamp down on the trepidation that rose up, bringing a cold numbness to his insides. She's not suppose to be here!

Summoning his courage, and pushing down his anxiety simultaneously he inched towards the door to see the common room was stuffed with nearly fifty men. He spied Lord Tyrion, Jyck, and Morrec were nearly surrounded and all disarmed by a handful of armed men dressed in different family colors.

Past the armed men, he spotted her, Lady Stark. A face he hadn't wanted to see again for some time. Her cold treatment of him had pushed him to join the Watch, and now she was trying to take the person responsible for saving him from the foolish mistake he nearly made.

Indecision rooted him to his spot. He didn't know what to do. He could skulk in the shadows and watch how it played out, or Jon could try to intervene. Try to stop this madness from going any further.

This couldn't be happening, he shook his head in dismay. They were suppose to be going the capital!

He was finally going to learn the truth about his mother. Now in some cruel joke by the gods he was denied that chance by the same woman who had made it clear to him from the beginning what his place was at Winterfell- the unwelcomed bastard.

I could ride to the capital, he thought. I could alert Father of this and also learn about my mother! The idea was appealing. So much so that Jon was retreating and preparing to go back to his horse and ride off.

"Kill him," a dark, dangerous voice rippled in the crowd and it brought Jon's retreat to an immediate stop. He gasped at the audacity of the declaration and searched for someone to voice their disagreement to such an action. None spoke out against it to save Lord Tyrion.

Lord Tyrion saved me from the Wall and I'm to thank him by abandoning him when he needs me most? Jon felt a cold coil of guilt wrap around his heart and squeeze tightly. Lord Tyrion deserved better than that.

Jon knew what he had to do.

"You can't kill him." Jon tried not to squirm when all eyes in the common room turned to him. In that moment, he wished he had Ghost with him. Jon felt braver with Ghost beside him. With Ghost, they'd listen and leave them be.

"You!" Cold, blue eyes stared at him with unmatched fury, disbelief colored her tone, but he could hear the sharp edge to it.

Jon would not bend to it. Not this time. This wasn't Winterfell.

"Lad, what are you doing here?" An old man was standing beside Lady Stark.

Jon frowned at the man with the familiar voice. He looked at the man's face for several seconds before realizing who it was, a clean shaven, Ser Rodrik Cassel.

"I'm traveling with Lord Tyrion," Jon answered honestly. "We were guests at Winterfell recently." He declared to the common room. "Where the current Lord of Winterfell, Robb Stark gave us both bread and salt," he pressed on before anyone else could object, "Bran was there, and he was happy and smiling because of Lord Tyrion!"

"Bran was awake?" A quiet soft voice spoke up.

Jon didn't turn to her. He remembered the last time he was lulled into a false sense of sympathy for the Lady of Winterfell. She had used it to declare that it should've been him not Bran who had gotten hurt.

"Yes," he settled his attention on Ser Rodrik who stood beside her.

"What do you mean, lad?" Ser Rodrik asked puzzled.

"Lord Tyrion had found a way for Bran to ride a horse," Jon told him, "A design by his own hand," he turned to Lord Tyrion, unable to decipher the dwarf's expression, but he nodded towards him nonetheless. "Bran thanked him more times than I could count that evening."

"My boy," Lady Stark's voice cracked with emotion.

"He needs you, Lady Stark," Jon implored her, "Return to your family and let Lord Tyrion go."

She looked at him as if she couldn't quite see him. For a fleeting moment, Jon felt hope swell in his chest that this incident was over. That he had actually stopped it from escalating, but then that moment passed.

It was not sympathy or relief that showed on her face but resolve. Her expression became resolute. Her blue eyes hardened. Her mouth tightened into a thin line. Her heavily bandaged hands were shaking.

"The actions of a guilty man who had a change of heart," she hissed, displaying her scarred hands to remind the room of Lord Tyrion's supposed crime. "Your repentance comes too late."

"This is madness, Lady Stark," Tyrion protested feebly.

Jon had been so distracted by Lady Stark's reaction he never saw the sellsword come up behind him. He didn't see the blow that came from the sword pommel.

Pain spread from the back of his head, dizziness seized him, wobbling in place. He fought to stay conscious even with dark splotches seeping into his vision. He saw Tyrion's wince and then Lady Stark's eyes coolly regard him before the floor rushed up to meet him and then there was only darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't forget to comment. It means a lot to get your feedback. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and reviewing,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	25. Sansa

Jeyne was babbling again.

Sansa smiled at her friend's enthusiasm, but it was more forced then genuine. They had arrived at their seats for the Tournament of the Hand. It was being held beyond the city walls; more than a hundred pavilions had been raised and set up along the river. From her seat she could see the commoners numbering in the thousands had fanned out along their stands to take in the tournament.

Jeyne was gushing beside Septa Mordane. She was wide eyed as she took in the sights of the tournament that was being held to honor Sansa's father's appointment as Hand to the King. She whispered excitedly about that knight or that lord when they rode past. However, it was Beric Dondarrion, the Lord of Blackhaven that seemed to have captured her interest and fed her fantasies.

This was the old me, Sansa thought wryly. There was a time when Sansa would be just as thrilled to be here as her friend. She would be enthralled by the splendor, by the shimmering armor of knights, the crowds of people, the banners of more than a hundred knights and lords that snapped and waved in the breeze.

Not anymore.

Sansa was thankful that the veil had been lifted from her eyes. Looking back she felt more than a bit embarrassed at how she had been so enthralled by the songs and tales of knights and ladies. Sansa was not that silly girl anymore. She was a young woman who'd soon be married. To a man I love, to her amusement she had gotten the ending in the songs she had always wanted, but it didn't require southern courts or princes.

Now, she was here at this tournament because of him, a faint smile played at her lips at that realization. Despite, these changes she couldn't deny the small sense of excitement she felt at being here.

"It's better than the songs!" Jeyne declared.

Keep your songs, Sansa wanted no part in them. Unlike her friend, she didn't marvel at the spectacle of it all that unfolded before her. Her heart and attention were on Domeric. That was all she cared about in this tournament.

As Jeyne became captivated by that knight or that lord, Sansa did not. She wasn't going to get lost in seeing these men dressed in their finest because she knew who these men were. They were Domeric's opponents. These were some of the best fighters that the realms had to offer.

"He looks like a beggar," Septa sniffed disdainfully.

Following Septa Mordane's line of sight to see her critique was being leveled on Jory's armament. Sansa did not like how the Septa judged her father's captain of the guard so harshly. He was a loyal man, good with a sword who would fight and even die for her father and her family. He didn't deserve to be dismissed so readily because of how he presented himself.

Jory was not riding alone from her father's household guard. Alyn and Harwin too had entered the lists. She remembered hearing them talking about the honor in riding for the north, but also the winning purse of forty thousand gold dragons as the two young men dreamed and discussed what they'd use the winnings on.

Domeric had been the only northern noble to enter the lists. Not a surprise, considering the north didn't view these tournaments with the same awe that the south did. The North didn't have many knights. That was the way of the Seven. The North kept to the Old Gods. White Harbor was the exception, the only bastion of the Seven north of the Neck.

It was then that she spotted him. Jeyne could keep Lord Beric and Ser Loras as far as Sansa was concerned they paled in comparison to Domeric. She felt her heart fluttering at seeing him atop his horse, he and Shadow covered in steel and draped in his family's colors.

He looked gallant as he urged Shadow over to where Sansa and Jeyne were sitting in the stands. Sansa realized that she was not the only one staring at her betrothed, hearing and seeing the reaction his armor was getting from the nobility and commoners alike.

He wore plate armor blacker then night. It was the rubies that were embedded in his armor that were getting everyone's attention. They glistened in the sunlight across his chest plate, surrounding the red painted flayed man that hung upside down on a cross, the infamous blazon of House Bolton.

While the rubies sparkled, it was the flayed man emblazoned along the chest that was eliciting just as strong as a reaction from the crowd. Sansa had asked Domeric why the rubies were included in the armor and Domeric had told her, they were a tribute to his family's history. They represented blood drops. Leave it to Lord Bolton to display wealth in such a unique way.

Sansa remembered marveling at the armor when he had shown it to her the night before. He had been less than impressed with the rubies, complaining it made him look like a foolish southerner and a hypocrite to be encased with such fine jewels for a tournament. However, Domeric wore the armor without protest. He was the dutiful son who would not disobey his father's orders.

A pale red cloak billowed behind him. He wore a rounded helm that resembled a snarling horse, including a mane of black feathers. He had told her the horse's helm was in part a jest to acknowledge his Aunt and Lord Redfort who had both said he rode like he was part horse.

Seeing him riding in towards her, she couldn't help but admire how handsome he looked. The dark armor coloring, the horse helm, the glistening rubies, he looked both fierce and valiant.

Her mind could not help but compare the scene unfolding in front of her to some of her favorites that had happened in her songs and stories from her youth. Sansa was quick to admit that this experience surpassed them effortlessly. Her heart was brimming with happiness and love for the man who rode to her. He was not the knight or the prince from her songs. He meant so much more to her. He was her betrothed, and the man whom she loved with every fiber in her.

When Shadow neared, Domeric dropped his head towards her in respect, "My love."

Sansa knew that by now all of the common folk and the high lords and ladies were watching her.

He gave her a brilliant smile when he raised his head. His brown eyes looked to her with such warmth it brought a feeling of delight that shivered just beneath her skin. "Would you allow me the honor of giving me your favor for this tournament?"

"You may have it," Sansa declared, tying her green scarf which matched her dress to his outstretched arm. When she had finished, she squeezed his arm and offered him a smile. "Be safe."

"I will," he vowed, kissing her outstretched hand across her knuckles. When the kiss ended, he met her eyes and showed her one more smile that had a way of making her tummy doing a flip before he snapped his helm shut and rode off.

\------------

Sansa clapped loudly when Domeric unhorsed a Frey during his second bout. The Frey knight looked to have all but flown from his horse when Domeric's lance struck true.

"Sansa," Jeyne hissed beside her, "Lords and Ladies are staring."

"Let them," Sansa was unbothered by the attention. She knew they had been watching her since Domeric rode out to ask for her favor. Mayhaps, that's how the ladies of the south acted when their betrothed and husbands rode: sitting quietly and meekly, but not her.

Sansa was not of the south. She was of the north. She had no intentions of hiding her support or her feelings for Domeric. She wouldn't bend to decorum in this moment. Not for this.

Septa Mordane was frowning. "Now, now Lady Sansa, a noble lady is expected to retain their etiquette," the Septa shook her head, "You're acting as wild as Arya."

Sansa smiled at that. "I could think of no finer compliment, Septa."

She blinked owlishly at Sansa as comprehension slowly came to her bony face at what Sansa had said.

Jeyne looked scandalized.

Sansa didn't spare her friend or the Septa another look returning her attention to the field as the next participants were preparing for their bout. It was to be between a young knight from the Vale and the terrifyingly large Ser Gregor the Mountain. She prayed to the gods that Domeric wouldn't have to face such a ferocious fighter, but if he did to lend him their protection and have his lance be true.

Jeyne was all but cowering at the sight of the formidable Gregor Clegane. Not for the first time, Sansa wished she had someone else to watch the tournament with then Jeyne. The daughter of Steward Poole was once her closest friend, but not anymore. They had grown apart. Jeyne stuck to the songs and Sansa grew up.

Bran would love all this, she thought with more than a tinge of sadness. Sansa could still remember the dream she had after father had told her and Dom that Bran would wake. He had been smiling, she had said to them. She missed her brother's mischievous smiles. How many times when she had wanted to be mad at him but couldn't because of those sweet smiles?

Too many to count, she thought with her own smile. He was supposed to be here. She knew her parents' plans before Bran had fallen. He could be here sitting beside her in awe of the knights and the jousting. Or he could be Dom's squire for the tournament, remembering how often her younger brother would watch Domeric during his training.

A shriek from Jeyne brought Sansa's mind back to the tournament to see the young knight from the Vale, lying beneath their seats on the ground. Gregor's broken lance protruding from the man's neck. Sansa found she couldn't take her eyes away from the body. Eyes taking in the blood that had run rivulets down the knight's armor. Red streaked across his chest plate to make it look like a bolt of red lightning forking across a blue, cloudless sky.

She felt nothing at seeing this freshly made corpse in front of her. Sansa felt no sadness stir in her chest for this knight whose name she hadn't bothered to remember when he had been first announced at the lists.

Then suddenly, playing in her mind's eye it was not this stranger from the Vale lying below her, but her beloved Domeric. His dead face looking up at her, lips parted, eyes wide, unmoving, his neck speared by a lance.

A slow fear coiled itself like a threatened snake at that image. That was when she felt tears prickling. When she felt cold fingers squeeze around her heart. She pushed away those conjured fears, she would not face them.

No, she growled with the fury of the direwolf that was emblazoned on her family's sigil, Not Domeric.

"Lady Sansa."

"Yes?" Sansa turned to regard her Septa who had her arm wrapped around Jeyne who was weeping. Her friend's eyes were already reddening as streaks of tears ran down her cheeks.

"I'm going to return Jeyne to the Tower and to her father," Septa informed her.

"Very well," Sansa had no intentions on leaving the tournament. She wasn't going to miss any one of Dom's bouts. "I'll stay here until you get back." She looked over her shoulder where two Stark guards were standing at the exit of their pavilion. "I'm well looked after."

Septa Mordane didn't look too pleased to be leaving her, but Jeyne's growing sobs left the Septa with no choice. "Very well," Her thin lips pulled tight together. She turned and left doing her best to try to calm and comfort Jeyne as she led her away.

Sansa watched them depart the pavilion before turning back to the field. They had already carried off the nameless knight and a boy no older then Bran was shoveling dirt to cover up the blood so that the jousts could resume.

"May I join you, Lady Sansa?"

Sansa turned to see Princess Myrcella standing before her, looking pretty in her black and gold dress with the crowned stag of house Baratheon looking proud and untamed.

"Of course, Princess," Sansa quickly got to her feet to offer her a curtsey.

"Please, Sansa," Myrcella's green eyes were pleading, "We're to be good sisters some day," she reminded her. "And if I wanted to be looked after like a fragile doll I would've stayed with my mother."

Sansa smiled, "Very well, Myrcella." She returned to her seat, not missing the look of relief that came to the princess' face before she took Jeyne's vacated seat.

"How's your friend?"

"She just needs some rest."

Myrcella nodded in understanding, "I saw my first a year ago at a tournament thrown for Tommen's name day," the princess shuddered, "It was a terrible thing."

"It is," Sansa wasn't sure what else she could say.

"How do you think Robb would do in a tournament?"

The Princess' question caught Sansa off guard, turning to see her hopeful look.

"Robb?" She wasn't sure her brother had much interest in them not that she was surprised given her father's experience and feelings on them.

"He'd ride well," she answered after considering it for a few seconds, "He'd ride even better with your favor."

Myrcella blushed, eyes glossing over, no doubt thinking of Robb in this tournament and fighting with her favor.

Sansa said nothing, leaving the Princess to her thoughts. She wondered if it a kindness to give such false hope to the Princess. Myrcella shouldn't be thinking about Robb in future tournaments. There would be none of those in their shared future. That was not the Stark way. The sooner the princess could let go of the trappings of the south, the better she'll be to embrace her role in the north.

Myrcella will need to learn, Sansa could not think the Princess could have a better teacher then her own lady mother. Catelyn Stark, once Catelyn Tully had to leave the warmth of the south to settle in the unknown that was the north. She'd be able to help Myrcella with the transition of a southern princess to the role of Lady of Winterfell.

Until then, it fell on Sansa to help the princess. She had started, but there was still much that needed to be done.

The roar of the crowd brought Sansa back to the bouts, watching Thoros of Myr unhorse Lord Beric, Jeyne's favorite lord of the lists. The commoners voiced their approval of the victory when the red priest made his circuit around the field. Thoros of Myr and his sword was a favorite within the capital.

"Your betrothed rides well," Myrcella complimented.

"He does," Sansa couldn't keep the pride out of her voice.

"Much to the displeasure of my brother," Myrcella made a face, "our crown prince."

Sansa was pleased to note that the princess didn't seem to like her brother any more than she or Dom did.

"You know the common folk already have a name for your betrothed," Myrcella's voice dropped to a near whisper, her tone turned mischievous, "They're calling him the Dread Knight." Myrcella giggled into her hands at the name as if it was some clever jape.

Sansa kept her smile from falling. She made it her mask so that she could hide her dislike at the name given to Domeric. A jest, an insult, meant to take aim at his family. The south had no respect for where she and Dom came from. This name was just another reminder.

A mocking title, she knew. One used to get guffaws and chuckles from those who'd toast it, not respect.

"Don't you like it?" Myrcella seemed to sense Sansa's smile was strained.

"Very clever," Sansa forced her smile to widen to belay Myrcella's suspicions.

"Joffrey wanted it to be the flayed knight," Myrcella shook her head, "or something more foul." She looked over her shoulder towards the royal pavilion to see if the crown prince was looking their way. He wasn't. "My brother was ranting about Lord Domeric and this tournament."

"What do you mean?"

Myrcella pressed her lips together, green eyes dancing in conflict on trying to decide if she should continue or not.

"Myrcella, please," Sansa gently touched her elbow, "it's as you said, we're to be good sisters soon. Sisters tell each other everything."

Sansa pushed aside the smidge of guilt worming its way in her insides at manipulating Myrcella in such a way to learn the truth. Plying her with flowery words of being sisters, knowing how much that would mean to the Princess. In an effort for her to reveal what she knew or heard from Joffrey.

I'll do what is needed to protect the ones I love, Sansa was adamant in this.

"I heard him talking to the Hound earlier before the tournament," Myrcella revealed. "He wanted the Hound to let certain competitors know that he'd offer a fat purse to the knight who took down Domeric." Her face paled slightly, "and more if he was injured or-"

"Don't say it," Sansa didn't need to hear it. Heat swirled in her tummy at the Prince's sinister offer.

"I'm sorry," Myrcella took Sansa's silence to think she was mad at her. "I-I think he's trying to-"

"I know what he wants," Sansa said coldly.

She remembered the night at Winterfell where he had come across her in the corridor. He had made his intentions clear. He had thought it an honor for her that he showed an interest in her. That she'd want to be his Queen.

It seemed her dismissal of him hadn't turned him away. If today's behavior was any indication. Now, it looked as if he was trying to poorly orchestrate an accident to befall Domeric.

In that reminder, her mind's eye brought her memory back to that Vale knight who had just died, but just like before it wasn't him, but Domeric. His body was lying crumpled and still, from the Mountain, an ambitious knight or a Lannister toady seeking the Crown Prince's favor and reward.

The fear was overpowering. She could feel cold claws trying to strangle her.

"Thank you," Sansa had pushed down her fears and banished those thoughts. "I'm thankful that I'll have you as a good sister some day."

Relief came to her face, "Me too." Myrcella agreed happily. "I've always wanted a sister!"

"And soon you'll have two."

Sansa quietly wondered if she should tell her father of the Prince's plan. She knew Joffrey would be quick to deny it. Even with Myrcella's word against his. Sansa wasn't sure the princess would stand by it if she had to face the judgment of her parents and of her brother.

She'd tell Domeric, Sansa would make sure he'd know, mayhaps, Captain Rylen too.

The old, but skilled Captain was serving as Domeric's squire for the tournament since he had none. Domeric had told her he chose Rylen because of the man's knowledge of southern fighting having fought with them and against them in Robert's Rebellion and his skill at being able to exploit his opponent's weaknesses.

Sansa had been pleased that Captain Rylen accepted. The old, scarred Bolton man at arms hadn't seen the offer as an insult, like she knew other men would have. Instead, he saw it as another way he could serve his lord and help the Bolton family. She was thankful to have such a loyal man on Domeric's side.

Then it was Domeric's turn again.

He rode to his place; his black plate armor looked like the night sky with his rubies glistening like stars. Captain Rylen was standing at his side; Domeric had bent his head to listen to whatever advice his captain of the guard was giving him before he gave him a firm nod in understanding.

Sansa beamed when he turned in her direction. His hand went to where her green scarf had been tied to his arm. He inclined his head towards her and Sansa could picture his warm brown eyes and handsome smile behind his helm. It was enough to make her heart quiver.

"I hope he wins," Myrcella's whisper pulled Sansa's eyes away from Domeric.

That was when Sansa looked to the other side of the field to see who her betrothed would be facing. It was Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard; his scale armor was the color of milk, an equally colored cloak billowing behind him. He wore a golden helm crowned by a sunburst crest. He shouted instructions to his squires who were rushing around to adhere to them before one timidly stepped forward to give him the lance.

Sansa wasn't surprised by Myrcella's words. Even if he was a member of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect the princess and her family, he appeared cruel and was always with either the Crown Prince or the Queen. She had no doubt of his loyalty to the Lannisters with the golden trimming on his white cloak and golden lion pin.

He had defeated Harwin in an earlier bout. Sansa thought it would be fitting for him to be beaten by a northerner. She liked the idea of an arrogant Kingsguard knight being humbled by Domeric. That seemed like a fitting song to be sung.

She then remembered Myrcella's warning of Joffrey's offer and knew someone like Trant would try to collect. He was a Lannister creature, she was sure of it.

Unaware to the crown prince's malicious offer, Domeric took his lance with a nod from one of his Bolton men at arms.

Domeric is the better rider, she reminded herself. She felt the cold creep of apprehension climb up her back. And then the signal was given and the men were riding and Sansa didn't have the time to worry or focus on Joffrey's bribes as her attention was solely on her betrothed and the tilt.

Shadow thundered across the field, the black destrier moving with such speed it looked as if its legs barely touched the ground. Domeric's lance struck true, hitting the knight square in the chest, but Trant remained in saddle while his lance split Domeric's black shield, severing the painted red flayed man in half.

Sansa's heart which had been beating thunderously against her bosom, returned to a calming pace. Her blue eyes watched Domeric closely, alert for any hint of discomfort or pain that may have befallen him when Trant's lance hit him.

Thankfully, he seemed fine as he handed his broken shield and was given a new one and lance. Captain Rylen was at his side in an instant, not parting until the second round was ready to begin.

Then they were galloping towards one another again. Sansa's eyes watching as Domeric leaned forward as he got closer, his lance still and poised. It aimed true, hitting Meryn's sun crested helm and sending the Kingsguard to fall hard onto the dirt with a dented helm.

He cursed and complained trying to remove it. Sending the commoners into a frenzy of noise. Laughter could be heard from the lords and ladies who did not try to hide their amusement behind polite facades. That was evidence enough to know that Ser Meryn Trant was not well liked within the royal court or capital.

Domeric completed his circuit around the field, receiving more applause and cheers from the commoners then he had in his first two matches. He seemed to have earned more of their support after having defeated the unpopular Trant. Some were even bold in their chants of Dread Knight, when he moved pass them but he ignored it.

Like before, Domeric stopped before Sansa's seat, lifting his visor to see him smiling at her. Sansa returned it, feeling heat come to her cheeks while her heart was a font that was overflowing with delight. He touched her scarf with his free hand. He was still smiling at her when he closed his visor before he galloped back to his waiting squire and men.

\---------------

The tournament couldn't have gone better, Sansa realized that night. The jousting had lasted until dusk when the king had called an end to it with the final tilts being decided the next day. Only four remained, Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Gregor Clegane, Ser Loras Tyrell, and her Domeric.

He had bested several more knights including two members of the kingsguard to secure his spot. He had ridden brilliantly and Sansa couldn't have been prouder of his performance. It had also been announced that he'd face Ser Jaime in his opening match while Ser Loras squared off against Ser Gregor.

While she thought about Domeric's opponents on the morrow, she was escorted by her father's guards to her table for the feast that was being prepared by the riverside. Pavilions and tables and tresses had been raised to accommodate the large crowd of nobility who had traveled to the capital to witness or partake in the Tournament of the Hand.

She was thankful that her table was far away from the royal pavilion. Sana was sure she'd lose her appetite if she was forced to sit near the presence of the Crown Prince. She could see the royal Baratheon banner of the crowned stag and the gold and crimson Lannister lion, but the faces below them were barely discernible. She was hopeful that her table would go unnoticed by the Queen and Joffrey.

Their table already had servings of fresh-baked bread, and strawberries. Sansa piled a few of the berries onto her plate just as a servant appeared with the first course which was a thick soup of barely and venison.

"I'll need another one brought out for my betrothed," she told the servant, who bowed and scurried off to get one for the empty seat beside her. The waft of steam from the soup tickled her nose, the scent making her tummy grumble. It was only in seeing and smelling all this food did she realize just how hungry she was.

However, she kept her hands folded on her lap. She would not begin until he joined her.

"My lady."

Sansa turned to see Domeric approaching her. He had gotten out of his armor and was dressed in a pale red doublet with black trimming to go with the dark buttons. He had a horse head pin resembling his mother's blazon, House Ryswell fastened to a black cloak.

"Domeric," she greeted him warmly. Quickly getting to her feet to cut the distance between them, she moved to embrace him. Happiness swept over her when his arms wrapped around her. "You were brilliant." She murmured into his chest.

"It was your favor, my lady." He kissed her hair. "Your support spurred me."

"Bolton," drawled an all too familiar, and annoying voice. The Crown Prince was watching them with a mocking smile; His faithful sworn shield, the Hound at his side.

"My prince," Sansa was quick to curtsey, but quicker to smother the simmering anger she felt boiling in her tummy, remembering Myrcella's warnings about her older brother's bribes in trying to get Domeric beat or worse.

Beside her, and oblivious to the Prince's scheming, Domeric offered him a stiff bow.

"It's a pity my dog was bested," Joffrey declared, "I would've enjoyed watching him beat you."

Domeric did not rise to the bait. He turned his attention to the Hound. "You fought well, Sandor. It is fortunate for me that our lances did not cross."

Sandor took Domeric's kind words with a snort. As if Domeric had just told him some sort of jape instead of paying him a compliment.

While the Prince looked annoyed that Domeric had chosen to ignore him, "No matter, my uncle will certainly handle an upstart like you come tomorrow."

Who is he to demean Domeric's accomplishments? Sansa thought angrily. What tournaments had he entered?

"Ser Jaime is an excellent warrior," Domeric remained unflinching, "There is no shame in losing to him."

"A coward's answer," Joffrey sneered, "Only a craven would welcome defeat with such flowery words."

Joffrey's dismissal of Domeric's polite deflection seemed to shatter whatever calmness he had left for the Crown Prince. He tensed beside her, and remembering his previous confrontation with Joffrey, Sansa knew she needed to intervene before he did something rashly.

"Why?" Sansa asked suddenly, turning the attention of both men towards her.

"What?" Joffrey looked at her in confusion.

"Why didn't you enter the tournament?" Sansa clarified. "You have boasted openly of your skills. It seems a shame that the people couldn't see their Prince in action."

She was certain she heard the Hound respond to her question with a raspy chuckle but that could've been a cough. She didn't dare risk meeting the Hound's eyes to confirm her suspicion that he was amused by her question.

"These are games!" Joffrey's fat wormlips formed a frown. "They're meant for children not princes. And I have better things to do then waste my time on them."

His excuse was laughable. It took all of her effort to stifle the giggles from bubbling up. "Of course, my prince," she replied smoothly.

"Oh don't listen to him," Princess Myrcella appeared, directing her older brother with an amused smile. "It's because Mother's afraid of seeing our Prince hitting the dirt."

"Sister," Joffrey greeted his sister tightly, but he said nothing else. As Myrcella had the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy standing beside her.

"Brother," Myrcella returned the greeting in a matching tone. She then turned to regard Sansa and Domeric with a friendly smile. "Congratulations, Lord Domeric, you rode well today."

"Thank you, Princess," Domeric bowed his head.

"Yes, lad," Ser Barristan agreed, "It was a surprise to learn that this was your first tournament with how skillfully you rode."

Sansa couldn't contain her proud smile at the sincere praise that the respected knight was giving to her betrothed. She looked over to see the Lord Commander's words seemed to have humbled Domeric. A rare feat seeing as she knew Domeric cared little of knights, but this was no ordinary knight. This was the fabled Ser Barristan the Bold, considered by many to be the greatest swordsman in Westeros.

"You honor me, Ser Barristan," Domeric straightened up at the praise.

Ser Barristan gave him a kind smile. "I look forward to seeing how you ride tomorrow."

"I only ride tomorrow, Lord Commander, because our paths didn't cross today."

Domeric had taken down three Kingsguard knights during the first day of the tournament, Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Preston Greenfield, and Ser Mandon Moore. It had been the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime who had bested the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard while the Knight of Flowers had defeated Ser Boros Blount and Ser Arys Oakheart.

"I'm not sure about that," Ser Barristan chuckled, "You ride well, Lord Domeric."

Joffrey scoffed, not bothering to hide his displeasure at the attention and praise that Domeric was getting.

"You're needed at your seat, brother," she said sweetly to him, "The responsibility of being the heir, I presume."

"Aye, my prince," The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard echoed the princess' message, "Your Grace asked for your presence."

A smug expression spread across Joffrey's face. "Come on dog," he turned to head back towards the royal pavilion, "I'm needed elsewhere."

"He shames us," Myrcella was frowning at her brother's retreating form.

"Thank you for saving us, princess," Sansa said lightly.

That got an amused chuckle out of Myrcella. "I had to," her eyes moved towards Domeric, "Otherwise you might think that all Baratheons are like my older brother."

He met her stare without yielding. "The Princess' consideration for my betrothed and myself is appreciated." He tilted his head to her, but his expression remained stony.

Myrcella looked away first. Turning to Ser Barristan, who stood to her left, "Come Lord Commander, I fear our presence will be requested soon enough by my Queen Mother."

"Aye, Princess," Ser Barristan's blue eyes flickered in amusement.

"Enjoy the rest of the feast, Lady Sansa," Myrcella smiled towards her, "and Lord Domeric best of luck tomorrow."

"I can only imagine what the celebration feast will be like," Domeric said dryly.

Sansa giggled at his observation. Her hand was resting in the crook of his arm as he escorted her back towards the Tower of the Hand after they had taken a cart that led them to the Red Keep.

The feast had been splendid, even though much of it had become a blur for her. She had lost count of the number of courses that came and left before her and Domeric. Despite her thoughts on tournaments, she would be lying to herself if she didn't say she had enjoyed her time attending this one.

She cherished her time with Domeric at the feast the most. They happily tried the new courses, trading smiles and japes as they observed the feast with the southern lords and knights. Many making fools of themselves as they had become emboldened by wine or ale, others didn't need the drink to look foolish.

It had been perfect, she realized with a contented sigh.

Not even Joffrey's presence or his scheming could dampen her mood. She had told Domeric what Myrcella had warned her, of Joffrey's manipulations and bribes, Domeric had taken the news without reaction. His face had been solemn when he thanked her for telling him, and his eyes betrayed nothing of how he was feeling knowing that the Prince was planning to try to harm him.

"What will you do?" she had asked.

"I'll win," Domeric had answered without hesitation. "No Knight of Flowers, or Kingslayer, or Mountain or even the Crown Prince's scheming will stop me." He looked at her so intently it made Sansa shiver in anticipation. "From declaring my love for you for the all the realm to see when I crown you my Queen of Love and Beauty."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ideas of rubies resembling blood drops and being linked to the Bolton family and tradition was an idea that I got from reading "The Bolton Bride,"by the Queen of Ice and Winter, who was kind enough to let me borrow and tweak the idea for this story. Thank you! It's a wonderful story featuring Domeric Bolton and Sansa Stark, so check it out on fanfic.net
> 
> A chapter every day this week? We're 3 for 3, so far. Should it continue? Let me know what you think in the comment section below. As well as your thoughts on the chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and reviewing,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	26. Eddard

Ned found his mood surprisingly good on the morning of the final tournament tilts.

Breaking fast with Robert had brought fond memories and easy smiles to him for the first time since he had arrived to the capital. Now, as he and the king moved towards the jousting field to see the end of the jousting for the Tourney of the Hand, he found smiles harder to come by. He had fallen quiet as Robert continued to talk and laugh about their days together in the Vale fostering under Jon Arryn.

The king was oblivious to Ned's sudden discomfort. A luster could be found in his deep blue eyes, his smile white and wide through his dark beard, looking younger and sounding happier then Ned had seen him since the two friends were reunited at Winterfell all those months ago.

Wistfulness seemed to be Robert's closest companion now, Ned thought sadly. Whether his friend was thinking on their time together in the Vale as boys, pining over Lyanna, winning the crown in the Rebellion, and defending it against the Greyjoys, Robert preferred the past to the present.

They had changed. Ned had moved forward while Robert remained bound to the past. When he left the capital after they won the throne, they faced the unexpected and the unknown. Robert was now the king and tasked to govern the seven kingdoms while Ned found himself, the Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North. They married women who were strangers to them.

Thankfully for Ned, he found love in his marriage with Catelyn. The same was not said between Robert and his Queen. There was no love between them only scorn that they didn't bother to hide anymore. Too tired to perform their roles and the act they had been playing all these years.

Their marriage was to be the foundation for a new dynasty that was to rule the Seven Kingdoms in the aftermath of the Targaryen demise; a notion that disquieted Ned greatly upon seeing the fruits of that union.

Arriving to the Royal Pavilion, Ned was quick to notice that the Queen was not present. Her seat beside the King was empty.

"Lord Hand," Lord Baelish called to them. "Good to see you attending your tournament."

"This is not my tournament," Ned corrected him. This is more your tournament then mine, he thought bitterly.

He had fought hard and often to try to dissuade Robert from having this tournament, but the King would not listen. When he realized that he could not change his mind, he tried to at least lower the winnings. The country was reeling, its coffers were empty, and the amount of money they owed to Tywin Lannister among others was troubling.

Robert would have none of it. Claimed, Ned was counting coppers. Frustrated, and friendless, Ned yielded again. He would not forget how the other members of the Small Council were quick and happy to side with Robert despite knowing this tournament was folly.

Ned couldn't understand how even the Master of Coin, Lord Baelish would consent to having such a lavished spectacle which was what this tournament had become. If anyone were to side with him, it should've been him, but Lord Baelish didn't.

He said yes, bowed and smiled and promised that the funds would be found. Robert was very pleased with that. Uncaring that those funds meant borrowing more from Lord Tywin Lannister, the Warden of the West, and Lord of Casterly Rock.

That got an amused look from Lord Baelish. "Truly?" he asked, "Someone must inform the heralds they've been calling this The Hand's tourney," chuckling at his own joke.

"You must be proud, Lord Stark." Littlefinger was lounging in his seat, eating grapes. "Your future good son has performed admirably, so far."

"Domeric is a good man," Ned said, "But not because he wins a few tilts."

"Of course," Littlefinger smiled, "I almost forgot how the north views these tournaments."

Ned did not care for them. A tournament being held in his name and honor would not endear them to him either. He had come today to support his daughter and her betrothed, Domeric Bolton. His soon to be son by law, Lord Domeric Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort had surprised all at the capital when he proved his talent as being one of the last four remaining riders.

Domeric was the only one of them who was not a knight. That was something of a scandal to many of the lords and ladies in attendance. Unable to comprehend how a northerner, and one who was not anointed with the holy oils had been able to best so many of their southern sons and brothers.

Ned was not surprised by Domeric's success. He had seen the young man ride countless times in the training yard at Winterfell under instruction or in the Wolfswood. Ned had been quietly impressed at how well Domeric rode. Reminding him of his brother Brandon, and his sister, Lyanna, both accomplished riders who their father joked were half horses.

The horns blew loudly announcing the start of the day's first joust and bringing Ned's attention back to the tournament in front of him. The spectacle and lavishness of the tournament was expected as he watched it unfold from the royal pavilion.

Harrenhal came to his mind's eye. Glimpses of his time there surfaced, memories stirred within. There, he had attended it as a second son. Winterfell was closed to him, and he had gone not with his family but with his second father in Lord Jon Arryn, and with Robert who he saw as another brother.

Ned could still remember the opulent display that Lord Whent had shown to the realm for his grand tourney. The nobles and commoners alike were united in their entertainment and their happiness upon taking in the Great Tournament of Harrenhal.

How they had cheered their Crown Prince when Rhaegar had won the joust at Harrenhal. He had bested Ser Barristan Selmy and received the recognition and love of the people in his victory. All had expected Princess Elia, his wife when the Crown Prince was given the laurels, but Rhaegar rode past her and crowned another his Queen of Love and Beauty.

All the smiles died then. The crowd became as silent as the grave.

A flurry of blue winter roses flickered across his vision. Promise me, Ned.

"Rhaegar," Robert murmured.

Ned blinked, turning suddenly to his friend and king, wondering and fearing had he silently whispered something when he had gotten distracted by his memories of Harrenhal. Ned looked to see Robert's blue eyes were wide and blinking. He wasn't looking to Ned, but to the field.

Frowning, Ned followed Robert's line of sight to see something that had Ned wondering if he was still thinking in the past. Riding before him, Ned saw the shade of Rhaegar Targaryen, a rider dressed in plate armor as dark as pitch with rubies glistening in the chest plate.

"A hundred gold dragons on the Kingslayer," Littlefinger announced when Ser Jaime Lannister entered the field, opposite the ghost of Rhaegar.

"Done," Renly replied, The two lords were oblivious to the reverie that Ned and Robert found themselves in. "Lord Domeric hasn't been bested yet."

Domeric, Ned's eyes snapped back towards the rider in black. Cutting through the fog of memories he saw that the rubies wrought in the plate armor did not form the three headed dragon of House Targaryen, instead they resembled what looked to be rain drops, surrounding a flayed man hanging upside down on a cross.

"Domeric," Ned muttered in equal parts disbelief and relief that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. He then watched the heir to the Dreadfort lead his horse towards the stands to see he was making his way over to where Sansa was sitting. That was when Ned spotted a wisp of green knotted to Domeric's arm.

Sansa's favor, he realized.

"RHAEGAR!" the disbelief that had colored the king's tone had crumbled to the famous fury of House Baratheon. The King looked ready to charge the field, eyes scanning for his weapon of choice-his famous war hammer.

"It's not Rhaegar, Your Grace," Ned told his friend quickly, wanting to calm the rage that was building up in his friend at the mention of the former Crown Prince. "It's my daughter's betrothed, Lord Domeric Bolton."

Thankfully, Robert's outburst had gone mostly unnoticed by those lords and servants that were closest to the King. Their attention was on the field where Domeric was talking quietly with Sansa while the Kingslayer prepared himself for the bout. Renly and Littlefinger were distracted by their own conversation. The two members of the Small council were talking quietly about their newly made bet on the bout between the Kingslayer and Domeric.

"What?" he blinked, looking back down to the field, his mouth twisted bitterly as his eyes looked over the dark armored rider. He sat back down with a grunt.

"Stupid armor," Robert grumbled, "Bloody rubies!" He groused. "More ale!" he bellowed his command, holding up his horn for it be refilled.

The King's timid squire, Lancel Lannister quickly came over to fill the horn which Robert then swallowed in one greedy gulp before holding it out again.

"More," the King of the Seven Kingdoms growled, "I'm cursed with the reminder of the dragonspawn raper." Robert drowned this one as well.

"Damn Rhaegar to the seven hells!" Robert's blue eyes were cold and hard as they remained on Domeric Bolton who was still conversing atop his horse with Sansa from her seats.

Ned shifted uncomfortably where he stood by his friend's seat. Not liking the look the King had on Ned's future good son. The resemblance Domeric's armor had to Crown Prince Rhaegar's as well as him currently talking to Ned's daughter, Sansa left him to only imagine what memories and bitter thoughts were churning in his Robert's mind.

"He stole her from me," Robert said quietly, looking down at his empty horn. "Lyanna," he said sadly.

"More ale, your Grace?" Lancel asked, uncertain what else to say to Robert's painful and emotional confession.

"Yes," Robert's voice lacked anger or sadness. It was just hollow.

Lancel quietly filled it once more.

"Your Grace," Ned said softly, concerned with how much and how quickly he had consumed his last few horns of ale.

Robert looked to him. His face was already beginning to look flushed. His eyes looked a bit unfocused.

"You won, Robert." Ned reminded him. He wanted to distract his friend and to bring his thoughts back to the present and away from the past.

"Did I?" Robert let out a humorless chuckle, "A cold bed and an empty seat," he gestured with his ale to where his Queen was suppose to be sitting, but Cersei had chosen not to attend.

"The gods are cruel," Robert nursed his ale in brooding silence. "Go, Ned," he told him, "Go to your daughter."

"Your Grace," Ned said awkwardly, still not certain he should leave his friend no less his king to his thoughts and drink. However, he had learned soon enough since reuniting with his friend that sometimes it wasn't company or sweet words that Robert needed when his mind and heart tore at him with memories of their past, but solitude and silence.

With a bow, Ned left the royal pavilion and made his way towards his daughter's seat.

\----------------

A clash of jewels, Ned thought dryly about the final two riders for the last remaining tilt. Sapphires, and rubies, knowing the two fine jewels that dominated the armors of Ser Loras Tyrell and Domeric Bolton. Sapphires to resemble flowers for the third son of Lord Mace Tyrell, and rubies to look like blood drops for the son and heir of Lord Roose Bolton.

Loras Tyrell's entrance for the final tilt proved how beloved he was by the people. The young knight's appearance earned him murmurs and fervent whispers from the crowd, commoners and noblewoman alike swooned when the Knight of Flowers rode his circuit around the field. Several were clasping roses in shaky hands gifts that Loras had given to the fawning women from both today's and yesterday's bouts.

He was dressed in armor for parading not for fighting, Ned thought. His silver armor was bright and polished, black vines snaked across his chest plate while sapphires were wrought into the armor to resemble forget-me-nots. There were some signs of dirt and grass on his armor from his brief, but dangerous encounter with his last opponent Ser Gregor Clegane.

The Mountain had violently protested how he had been bested by the young knight. He had killed his horse in a ferocious blow that brought shrieks and sickness to the crowd. The towering knight had stormed off the field, cursing and grumbling after he had been stopped from nearly killing Loras in a fit of rage. It had taken the timely interference of Sandor Clegane, the King's bellowing command, two members of the Kingsguard, and an additional dozen knights before Gregor left the field.

Silence descended on the crowd when the Knight of Flower's final opponent took the field. Domeric Bolton led his dark destrier out into the open to receive a smattering of applause and cheers that was far softer then what Loras Tyrell had received. While others in the crowd had begun to chant his new name, Dread Knight.

A ghost from the past, Ned still could not ignore the striking resemblance of Domeric's armor to that of the former Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. He had not grown use to the striking sight the heir to the Dreadfort made to the previous heir to the Iron Throne.

His rubies shone against the dark backdrop of his black plate armor. The red flayed man who hung upside down looked harrowing despite being surrounded by the red jewels. The red colored cloak trailed behind him like a shadow formed from blood, and his horse helm completed the intimidating appearance that made Ned understand why the people were calling him, The Dread Knight.

He rode to where they were sitting. When he removed his helm, Ned was half expecting to see long silvery hair, dark indigo eyes and the handsome, but melancholy face of the Crown Prince. But this was not Rhaegar Targaryen, and instead it revealed the dark hair, dark eyes, and plain features of Domeric Bolton.

"My Lady," he said softly.

"Dom," Sansa replied warmly. "Return to me,"

"Always," he assured her before pressing his lips to her outstretched hand. He then tapped the green scarf that was knotted to his arm. His look was determined when he snapped his helm shut and rode over to his men and squire.

Domeric had only solidified his growing reputation as a rider and jouster in his fist match of the day against the Kingslayer. While Loras had relied on tricks to beat the Mountain, Domeric had used skill to defeat Ser Jaime Lannister. He had ridden twice against the Kingsguard knight before defeating him. He had aptly picked up on the kingslayer's method and exposed it to defeat the heavily favored rider.

"Will you allow me to win my coin back, Lord Renly?" Littlefinger asked the Lord of Storm's End, "My gold dragons on the northern lord."

"The same northerner you bet against all tournament?" Renly laughed.

"Yes," Littlefinger stroked his beard, "But I have a feeling that you'll not bet against your friend, Ser Loras."

"Very well," Renly said quickly, his voice strained. "You have a wager."

"Excellent," Lord Baelish sounded pleased.

Ned noticed his daughter had taken the conversation with a look of dislike.

"They're rooting for Domeric to be beaten or worse hurt just for a few gold dragons," Sansa said sharply. Her anger and disgust were palpable.

"Aye," Ned patted her hand which was resting on his arm. It was just another reason for him to be against these tournaments. Gambling on the fate of a man did not sit well with him.

There was no more time to talk as Domeric was galloping down the field towards Loras Tyrell. As they neared, Loras' lance hit true, smashing into Domeric's chest, wood splintered on impact and Domeric rocked backwards in his saddle, but he remained atop his horse. His lance had broken on Loras' shield, but the knight looked undaunted from the attack as he retreated back to his side of the field.

Ned felt Sansa's grip on his arm had tightened. "Sansa, he'll be fine." He told her gently.

Sansa blinked at her father's words as if she hadn't heard them. Her blue eyes didn't turn to him, but remained on Domeric. Intently looking to see if he had taken any injury from the hit, she dispelled the breath she had been holding in relief when he took the offered lance without grimace or sign of pain.

The second bout began suddenly and Domeric urged his destrier across the field, while Ser Loras' mare matched their pace. For the second time, Ser Loras' lance struck Domeric, this time higher up on the chest that had Domeric reeling so far that his back nearly touched his horse.

Sansa gasped, but it was swallowed up by the deafening roar of the crowd.

Loras seemed to have thought his victory assured when his lance hit and he rode past. When he turned back he looked to be expecting to see Domeric on the ground, but that was not to be. Incredibly, Domeric did not fall from his horse. Equal parts surprised and frustrated, the Knight of Flowers rode back to prepare for the next bout.

Domeric's return was more gradual. Ned could spot the discomfort in his movements when he reached his men. His squire was quick to his side, Domeric bent over with some difficulty to hear what his squire had to tell him.

"He's hurt," Sansa lamented softly. Her eyes shone with concern and transfixed on him.

"Don't worry," Ned nearly winced at how tightly her fingers were digging into his arm. "Captain Rylen wouldn't let Domeric ride if he was injured."

When it was time for the third bout, Domeric led his destrier to dash forward. The horse looked like a blur blazing across the field. Ned was amazed at the horse's speed despite having run so many times already, showing its remarkable stamina.

Something Domeric had been counting on, Ned realized, looking to see Loras' mare could not match the pace of the warhorse.

Domeric was holding his lance in a still grip as he urged his warhorse to go faster. In the last second, he shifted his lance, so instead of hitting Loras' chest plate the tip smashed into his ornamented helm. The speed behind the destrier and the force behind the hit shattered the lance and sent the Knight of Flowers tumbling into the dirt in an armored heap.

The crowd which had been expecting a victory for the Knight of Flowers after witnessing the first two rounds was stunned as they watched their beloved knight hit the ground-hard. That disbelief quickly gave way to cheers and applause and chants of Dread Knight.

Ned wasn't sure anyone was clapping louder than Sansa, who had jumped to her feet upon seeing Domeric knock Loras off his horse.

Domeric dropped his broken lance and looking in their direction, moved his hand to where Sansa's favor had been knotted to his arm. He then removed his helm and saluted the king when he arrived to the front of the royal pavilion.

Ned watched anxiously, eyes on his friend. The king who had not been pleased at his armor, but Ned silently hoped, that Robert's displeasure and anger would not be taken out on an innocent Domeric or to be voiced in front of the crowd.

"Your champion," Robert bellowed. His tone came out loud and a bit harsh. He wasn't smiling or clapping as the crowd did when he announced Domeric the victor. He looked down at him with a stony expression.

Domeric, who was oblivious to the king's reaction smiled and thanked him as he was given his victory purse of forty thousand gold dragons. He was then given a wreath of golden roses to serve as his crown for him to name his Queen of Love and Beauty.

It was that decision that seemed to have the crowd's interest as they murmured to one another. Domeric holding the garland of roses urged his horse forward.

Let the gods be good, Ned found himself thinking. He felt a chill of apprehension crawl up his back at the fleeting thought of Domeric spurning his daughter for someone else. It immediately brought a feeling of guilt to his gut.

If Rhaegar could pass his wife then is it not fair to suspect what another man may do? A small voice whispered to him.

It wasn't until Ned felt a shadow did he look to see Domeric had stopped in front of them. He had eyes only for Sansa. Seeing his daughter's face and the look he gave her. He should've known it was folly to expect Domeric to choose anyone else. It was foolish of him to doubt Domeric's devotion to Ned's eldest daughter.

Sansa who had been standing dipped her head to allow Domeric to crown her with the laurels of golden roses. When she raised her head she flashed Domeric a dazzling smile, her cheeks red, but her eyes shined bright. She was glowing.

The crowd's reaction was boisterous, hollering and clapping at the display. Ned was certain that neither of them were even aware of the crowd's response as their attention was solely fixed on one another as they shared an intimate silence between them.

Pleased, to see his daughter look so happy, Ned found the strength to ignore the pain that had stemmed from Harrenhal and in that moment, he allowed himself a small, but proud smile for his daughter, the newly crowned Queen of Love and Beauty.

\------------

The feast to conclude the Tournament of the Hand was a grand affair. Extravagant and expensive given the troupes of performers that had been brought in, the numerous courses presented to the guests, and all of the gild and opulence that seemed to cover every table and piece of cloth that served as decorations.

At the center of the dancing was his daughter, Sansa who was enjoying herself, laughing while she twirled in Domeric's arms; swirls of blue silk and red lace trailing behind from her dress. She was still wearing the crown of gold roses that Domeric had given her. The flowers nestled atop her long, curling auburn hair. She was beautiful and happy. Domeric had picked a black doublet with red trimming while the sleeves had the flayed man stitched onto them. On his right arm was Sansa's green favor.

Ned smiled from his seat. Sipping his black beer and seeing how his daughter interacted with her betrothed. He couldn't help but feel foolish for doubting Domeric's intentions of crowning someone else.

He sighed, at the guilt that festered in his gut for those misleading thoughts. Ned had seen the two of them together nearly three years now, two at Winterfell, and these past few months at the capital. He knew soon they'd be sitting at the high table at Winterfell enjoying their own wedding feast.

Winterfell, he was ready to return home. To hold and kiss Cat in his arms, to watch Robb in the practice yard, to be with Rickon, his youngest who he feared may see him as a stranger the longer he stayed in the capital. He wanted to see Bran, to see his son with his eyes and to see how he was coping with his fall.

The wedding of Sansa to Domeric gave Ned the opportunity he needed. It was the perfect excuse for him to return to Winterfell to honor the betrothal agreement between him and Lord Bolton and to see their children to be married. There he could get council from those he trusted, wise Maester Luwin, sensible Ser Roderick, and Cat, whose voice he relied on so often as he ruled Winterfell. He could not think of any other he had wanted or needed by his side besides Cat.

He could tell them what little he learned and of his suspicions from the safety of his family's ancestral seat. Ned wouldn't have to worry about Lannister retribution north of the neck. The more he thought about it, the more he knew he needed to make arrangements to prepare for his departure.

It was time for him to go home. It was time for Sansa to marry.

Ned looked out onto the dancing, his grey eyes searching for his daughter. He found her, smiling and breathless as she and Domeric had just finished an up tempo dance. It was then that they were interrupted by the arrival of Lord Renly Baratheon and his niece, the Princess Myrcella. It looked as if Renly was asking Sansa to a dance. She had taken his interruption with a polite smile and acquiesced to the Lord of Storm's End request.

Domeric was frowning. He was ready to retreat from the dancing before the Princess took his arm with her hand and had them following her Uncle Renly. Domeric looked to have declined her, but Myrcella seemed too stubborn to accept.

Good, Ned thought about the Princess. She'll need that stubbornness and confidence when she goes north to Winterfell. Ned knew how the northern lords could respond to another southern lady being the Lady of Winterfell. She'd need her stubbornness and charm to get through to them and if she could get Domeric to dance with her, then Ned thought she was off to a promising start.

His eyes drifted back towards his daughter. Robb had been born out of duty from his marriage to Cat. Not Sansa, she had been born out of the love that had blossomed between him and his wife.

She was a child of that new formed love. For that, she would always hold a special place in his heart.

Robb had been nearly a year when he looked upon his son and heir for the first time, but Sansa had only been a few hours old. Her wisps of auburn hair, pale, soft skin, Ned had cradled her in his arms sitting next to Cat who had been resting and recovering from the ordeal. He could still remember the warmth that filled him when he saw Sansa's eyes look to him for the very first time.

Sansa's sudden presence brought Ned back to the present. No longer was he holding his young daughter as a babe, but looking at a young woman who took the seat beside him. Her face was flushed from dancing, and Ned suspected wine too.

"Where's Domeric?"

"Getting us drinks," she answered, out of breath, her eyes bright and she was smiling.

"You look happy," Ned observed of his eldest daughter.

"I am happy," her dainty fingers were gently brushing up against one of the golden rose petals from her crown. "Happier than I've ever been!"

"Good," He returned her smile.

In his mind's eye, another Stark girl sat before him, beautiful and willful, with long, dark hair and atop her head rested a garland of blue, winter roses. Lyanna looked to him, eyes sad, but determined: Promise me, Ned.

His smile dipped.

The ghosts of Harrenhal descended upon him. This tournament was trudging up thoughts and memories that he had long since buried. The shade of Lyanna and her laurel of winter roses slipped back in the dark crevices of his mind.

He was back in the present. Sansa was with him, replacing the ghost of his sister. A garland of golden roses rested atop her auburn curls. She was practically glowing, as her eyes viewed the dancing that was going on in front of them. Her glances often went astray searching for her betrothed through the crowd of nobles who were drinking and laughing among themselves.

"We'll be going home soon," he said quietly.

Sansa turned to him. She looked as if she hadn't quite heard him.

"I'll be making the preparations soon," he told her, "I'll be talking to Vayon and speaking with Robert in the morning."

"When do you think we'll leave, Father?" She asked hopefully.

"I still have letters to write to the Dreadfort and to Winterfell," he admitted, "but within a few weeks if possible."

"That would be wonderful!" Sansa brightened. "I miss them and home." Her tone had more then just a shade of wistfulness to it.

"You know what that means," he said softly. He was pleased to see she wanted to return and reunite with her family and Winterfell, but there was a bigger reason for why they would leave the capital. "We go north to fulfill our betrothal agreement with House Bolton."

"I am ready to be the next Lady of the Dreadfort." Sansa answered without hesitation."I care for him, Father. I want this." Her fingers returning to her crown of golden laurels. "I love him."

"Good," Ned gently patted her arm that was resting beside him. "I'm proud of the young woman you've become, Sansa."

"Thank you, Father." Her face flushed with his praise. "Will the Princess be traveling with us?"

"I'm not certain," he answered honestly. That was one of the reasons why he needed to speak with Robert. "What do you think of her?"

"She'll make Robb happy," Sansa's tone conveying her approval of that. Her eyes went to the Princess who was currently dancing with her Uncle, Lord Renly. "But I'm not certain the north can make her happy."

"What do you mean?" He was curious with Sansa's thoughts on the Princess since she had spent so much time with her.

"Her roots to the south go deep. She has a heart for tournaments and feasts." Sansa gestured to the dancing Princess and the spectacle that enveloped the area of these lavish festivities. "But I once felt the same," she admitted softly, "and I learned and so can she."

"She'll learn," He was certain. The Princess would have Cat to help teach her and guide her to what is expected of the Lady of Winterfell.

"She must," Sansa said, "because winter is coming."

"We'll be ready for it when it comes," He assured her. Once more pleased, and proud of the young woman who sat beside him. She had grown these past few years. Seeing her wisdom and maturity, Ned knew that the Dreadfort would be blessed and thankful to have her as their Lady when Winter arrived.

He'd miss her, but he knew he needed to let her go. Soon, his role of providing and protecting her would pass to another, to Domeric. She'd always be his daughter, but it was time for her to start her own family, and to strengthen their pack.

"Father?" Sansa asked, "They say Lord Renly looks a lot like the King when he was younger."

"Aye," Ned turned to see that Sansa was watching the Lord of Storm's End dancing with Princess Myrcella with a pensive look.

He remembered seeing Renly again for the first time in years on their journey south to the capital. He had looked just like Robert it had been frightening. He was not as muscled or as tall, but the eyes, the face, the hair. There was no mistaking it the striking resemblance.

"Why do you mention it?"

"It just seems strange, Father," she said reluctantly.

"Strange?" Ned frowned, "How so?"

"Yes," she looked to be choosing her words carefully. "While Renly looks just like his brother, a stag, a Baratheon, but none of the king's kids look like him. They all look like lions."

He was surprised by the insight in his daughter's words, and could not help but agree with them. However, wasn't it normal for children to sometimes favor one parent in looks? All of his children with Cat except for Arya favored her family with their Tully coloring of auburn hair and blue eyes. Mayhaps, the Lannister coloring was more dominant then the Baratheons.

"Oh no," Sansa's words caught his attention.

He turned and regarded his daughter to see her eyes had hardened and her mouth curled angrily. Surprised by the sudden shift in his daughter's demeanor; he turned to see what had caused them. Ned instantly understood her reaction when he spotted the Crown Prince Joffrey standing in Domeric's way.

The heir to the Dreadfort was carrying two drinks, but Joffrey had been quick to swipe one away.

"A warrior and a servant," he said to the onlookers, as they tittered nervously at the Prince's jest. Joffrey then drank from the goblet, smacking his lips when he finished. "That was quite good. I'll have another." He took the second and drank from it too.

"I live to serve, my prince," Domeric said stiffly.

"Good, then mayhaps you should serve me and my guests more wine." Joffrey decided.

"Now, now nephew," Renly appeared standing between the two young men. "That's not anyway to treat the tourney champion," he put his hand on Domeric's shoulder, and murmurs of agreement rippled around them.

"Forgive my young nephew, Lord Domeric," Renly announced to the curious crowd of nobles, "He's had too much to drink, I fear."

Seeing them side by side, Ned could only agree with his daughter's observation. There were no similarities at all between Renly and Joffrey. They looked more strangers then kin. He felt something tug at the back of his mind, as if trying to tell him the importance of this detail.

"I think some water, bread, and a tonic from the Grand Maester before bed may be the proper cure," Renly ignored his nephew's glare. "Trust me, I speak from experience," he added the last part with a wink and a smile that earned laughter from those that had been watching.

A pair of guards draped in the Baratheon colors appeared at the Prince's side. Joffrey looked at them with anger and disgust and refused their assistance when he stormed off.

"Make sure my nephew finds his chambers," Renly instructed the guards, who bowed and left to follow behind the Crown Prince. "Go Domeric, do not mingle with us when you have a lovely lady waiting for you," he clapped Domeric on the back, "I'll have a servant come to your table with more wine."

"Are you alright, Dom?" Sansa asked, eyes shimmering in concern when Domeric moved to take the seat next to her.

"Yes, I'm fine," he assured her, "Just enjoying the Prince's hospitality."

"You handled him well, Domeric," Ned told him, impressed at how he was able to stay calm. A trait Ned knew he had inherited from his father, The Lord of the Dreadfort.

He had heard of a recent altercation between the Crown Prince and Domeric, and had been pleased that his future good son had been able to dissolve the tension without it escalating. To think, Robert had wanted Ned to betroth his daughter to Joffrey. He shook his head not wanting to dwell on that possibility of Sansa being tied to such a mean spirited and spoiled young man.

No, he had been wise to decline that offer. Even if Sansa had not already been promised to Domeric and he had to choose between them: his daughter's happiness or the prestige that came with marrying into royalty. He would choose her happiness. He wanted her to have a good, supportive husband. He was thankful that he had found one for her with Domeric.

"Thank you, Lord Stark," he nodded. "But enough talk of tiresome princes," Domeric drank from his glass, "When I have better things that require my attention." He smiled, extending his hand to Sansa, "like my beautiful betrothed."

His smile turned sheepish as if just remembering Ned's presence, "With your permission of course, Lord Stark."

Ned smiled at the two of them, "You have it."

"Thank you, Father," Sansa clasped her hand to Domeric's as he led them back to the dancing.

Tonight, Ned had decided that he'd enjoy his daughter's happiness and the bright future that awaited her in the north.

While tomorrow he'd continue his investigation up until he leaves the capital in a few weeks to return to Winterfell. If he were to discover the circumstances that led to Lord Arryn's death or perhaps crucial evidence to implicate the Lannisters he'd be able to go home. Ned would take that knowledge with him back to the north and he could plan accordingly in the company of his allies and most trusted advisers.

And from there only the gods would know what would come next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks so much for the tremendous feedback from the last chapter. It was fantastic, great to hear your guys thoughts and impressions on the chapter.
> 
> So here we are on day 4 and here you are with another chapter. 
> 
> Shall this trend continue for Friday? Let me know what you think by dropping a comment as well as your thoughts on the chapter itself.
> 
> Thanks and Enjoy, 
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	27. Myrcella

"Why are we here?"

"To pray, Tommen," Myrcella answered.

"But this isn't the Sept," He was trailing behind her.

"No, it isn't." She and her brother were walking along one of the cobbled paths that cut through the Godswood. The Princess and Prince were being followed by Lord Commander Barristan Selmy.

Myrcella was tired of the Sept. That had been where the Court had gone to. They went there to show their faces and mouth the words to the Gods to heal her brother. She doubted any of them were truly praying for her brother's recovery.

It had come suddenly. The day after the tournament Joffrey had been fine, but yesterday he couldn't leave his bed. A sickness of the stomach, Grand Maester Pycelle had diagnosed, that had left Joffrey hugging his privy. Mother was beside herself. She hadn't left Joffrey's chambers since he started showing symptoms.

Pycelle had said that he'd be better in a day or two. And would get the proper tonics needed to dull Joffrey's stomach for the time being. It was said her brother had thrown his filled privy at Pycelle in a fit of rage when the Grand Maester told him that he needed rest and to remain in his room for a few days.

"We shouldn't be here," Tommen said softly when they arrived at the heart tree. "These aren't our gods." He looked around nervously. "The Father could get angry with us." He gulped, "They wouldn't like that we're here."

"You don't have to pray, Tommen," Myrcella took her brother's hand and gently squeezed it. "You can just keep me company."

"But what about you?"

"Someday Tommen, I will be the Lady of Winterfell," she told him. "I will marry Lord Robb in the Godswood of Winterfell in front of the heart tree." Myrcella took a few hesitant steps to approach the heart tree of the Red Keep's Godswood. "Our children will follow the old gods."

"Why?" His face scrunched up in confusion, "Why can't they follow the Light of the Seven?"

"Their gods are the old gods and it is expected of the Stark children who rule the north to keep with the gods of their ancestors," she answered. "You don't have to worry for me."

"Yes, I do," he said without hesitation. "I'm your brother. I have to."

She turned to face him to see his pudgy face was solemn, green eyes imploring her to believe him. "You are sweet brother," she would've reached out and tussled his hair if not for the distance between them. "But I go somewhere beyond your reach."

Tommen looked crestfallen at the idea that he couldn't protect her.

Myrcella's heart reached out to her younger brother. Feeling a soft ache inside her chest, only now as she said the words did realization come to her that she would be leaving her home soon for Winterfell. That she'd be leaving her brother behind.

"I'll pray for you," Tomen vowed with the seriousness that only a child could muster.

His tone and words were enough for her to smile at her valiant younger brother, and thank the gods both old and new to be blessed with someone as sweet and as loyal as him.

"I would welcome those prayers." Seeing Tommen smile at her assurances she then turned to face the great oak that served as the heart tree in the Red Keep. Smokeberry vines slithered and crawled along its branches.

Sansa had told her that in the north all of the heart trees were weirwood. That the faces carved into the bone white bark of the trees serve as a way for the old gods to watch over them.

Myrcella had been too afraid to venture into the Godswood of Winterfell. One day she'd say her vows in front of one. What sort of northern bride would she be if she didn't have the courage to stand in front of the weirwood tree?

Hesitantly, she knelt beneath it. Trying to mimic the way she'd seen Sansa and Domeric do it. Feeling no different than when she was at the Keep's Sept doing her prayers or lighting the candles. She let loose an anxious breath, and closed her eyes.

Kneeling awkwardly, no words came to Myrcella to offer up to the old gods. No pleas to heal her brother were forthcoming. She started a handful of different prayers to give to the gods of the north, but she could not finish them. She felt neither grief for her brother's ailment nor urgency for him to heal.

Myrcella felt nothing for Joffrey.

Mayhaps, she should pray for that? Then she stopped herself. She knew what sort of man her brother was. She could not forget his cruelty, the malice deeds and tricks he inflicted upon her and Tommen because he could, because he enjoyed it.

No, she realized Joffrey didn't deserve her prayers. She could not defy him while watched by her mother and the court, but here she could. In the sight of only the gods, her defiance would reign.

So instead her thoughts were left to wander. First to bitterness about her relationship with her brother, but soon that blew away like leaves from a harsh gust that came from the Blackwater. Then images from her previous night's dream came to her mind's eye. They were so potent it brought a dazed smile to her face and a flutter to her tummy.

It was a Tournament. One held outside the great walls of Winterfell, in the shadow of the Stark's ancestral seat. Thrown in honor and in celebration of her wedding to Robb. All of the kingdoms came to see the Princess marry the Heir to the North.

Robb had entered the lists. He rode hard beating every opponent that crossed him until only he remained. Triumphant in the adulation of the commoners and the respect of the nobility and the knights, he rode his horse to where she sat and bequeathed her a laurel made up of blue, winter roses that grew in the glass gardens of Winterfell. He crowned her his Queen and just as she moved to feel his lips on hers, the dream had ended.

Fingers of light crept into her room to poke her awake and take away the bliss and adulation she had been feeling to cruelly remind her that she was not yet his queen, nor his wife. And she was many leagues from him. That morning she had let out a very frustrated sigh into her pillow as the heat from her dream dissipated.

A trickle of cramps began to creep into her legs and she adjusted her stance. She wasn't use to kneeling. In the Sept, there were benches. Cozy and cushioned that provided comfort so that those with prayers could linger and not have their frail bodies betray them before their souls were finished.

Not here. No benches were placed beneath the heart tree. There were no comforts in the north.

She remembered when she gave the tour of the Godswood to Domeric and Sansa, and he had asked about why there were so many benches. She had told him it was so that the lords and ladies wouldn't have to suffer from any aches or discomfort while trying to enjoy the weather and the gardens. Domeric had scoffed, and she was certain he mumbled something about: soft, flowery southerners and that even outside their arses needed to be comforted .

Myrcella had pretended not to hear that. Or see when Sansa had squeezed his arm in response to quiet him about his berating on the southern nobility, but she remembered that there was also amusement in Sansa's expression when she had silently chided her betrothed. That led Myrcella to believe that Sansa too agreed with Domeric's sentiment even if she was polite enough not to say it.

Seeing their reaction had stopped her from asking if they had benches in the Winterfell Godswood. Myrcella enjoyed the benches here. She didn't like her dresses to be stained by leaves or earth from the ground. She enjoyed a seat to rest her weariness after a long walk in the sun. She wisely kept those thoughts to herself as she had finished the tour with Domeric and Sansa.

A sudden whimper from Tommen caused Myrcella's eyes to snap open and for her to spin around quickly to see what was distressing her brother. There she saw it. Stalking out between two elm trees was Lady, Sansa's direwolf.

Tommen reacted poorly to the direwolf's appraoch. He was pale and shaking. Her brother had been terrified of Lady, and tried to avoid her whenever he could. He preferred small kittens and cats, not dogs and especially not wolves.

"Stay back, wolf," Ser Barristan called out in warning. He moved forward to intercept the direwolf before she got too close to Tommen.

Lady stopped. She turned to regard the Lord Commander with an intelligent gaze. She then shifted her eyes towards Tommen. Tilting her head to the side to examine the young Prince in mute interest, she stepped closer, sniffing the air with curiosity.

Barristan had his hand on the pommel on his sword and was ready to draw it to defend Tommen. He stood in between the direwolf and prince.

"Lady," Sansa's voice called, "To me, Lady."

Lady raised her head, head cocked, ears and eyes alert. She turned away from Tommen and Ser Barristan, looking to the where the voice had come from.

"Lady," Sansa emerged from between the elms where Lady had come from minutes earlier. "You know you're not supposed to run off like that." She scolded her direwolf.

Lady responded with a soft, apologetic whine before bowing her head.

It was only then did Sansa notice them. Her eyes went from Ser Barristan, who's hand remained on his sword's pommel, and then to the trembling Tommen.

Myrcella moved from her position to the heart tree to her brother and was quick to embrace him. Feeling him shaking in her arms, "It's alright, Tommen," she soothed him, rubbing his back. "You're safe."

Tommen only murmured into her shoulder, but she shushed him softly.

"Did something happen?"

"Your direwolf was approaching the Prince," Ser Barristan answered not unkindly, "and would not relent from leaving him be," he eyed the animal with suspicion.

"Forgive me," Sansa apologized quickly, "Lady meant no harm to either of you," she tried to reassure them.

Ser Barristan didn't look convinced, and Tommen still hadn't lifted his head from Myrcella's shoulder.

"Lady, shame," Sansa chastised, pointing a finger at her direwolf. "I've taught you better."

Lady chuffed softly, but didn't meet her master's eyes.

"Prince Tommen," Sansa turned to them, "Forgive me," she implored. "Lady would never harm you."

Tommen raised his head to look at Sansa, but didn't speak.

"Will you let Lady apologize?" Sansa asked him. "I can show you she means it."

Tommen's green eyes widened at that suggestion.

"It's okay," Myrcella voiced her defense, "Sansa is right. Lady is a good direwolf." She looked to see Ser Barristan's skeptical look. "We can trust Lady Sansa, and Lady," Myrcella told her brother. "I've been around them both and they make for wonderful company."

Lady raised her head almost regally at Myrcella's words. She made almost what sounded like a pleading whine of her own towards Tommen.

Tommen slowly nodded his consent.

Sansa smiled. She put a hand on Lady's blue ribbon collar and carefully led her over to cut the remaining distance between them.

Myrcella could feel her brother tensing as the direwolf approached. Lady's size was intimidating at this angle as Myrcella was kneeling beside her brother and had to look up slightly to meet the direwolf's golden gaze. She put her hand on her brother's shoulder, "I'm here, Tommen." She reminded him.

Sansa stopped and offered the Prince and Princess a curtsey, because even when she was introducing them to her growing direwolf, Lady Sansa always observed her courtesies. To Myrcella's amusement, Lady mirrored her master's movement, bowing her head.

"You can pet her," Sansa encouraged. "Lady will do nothing as long I'm here."

"My Prince, My Princess," Ser Barristan interjected from where he stood, a few paces away. "I do not think this a wise idea." He sent Sansa an apologetic look, "My apologies, my lady, but your direwolf is a wild animal, and even with a ribbon tied to her neck it cannot truly be tamed."

"Lady has always been friendly with me, Ser Barristan," Myrcella reminded the Lord Commander, "I appreciate your concern and your wisdom, but in matters involving the direwolf, I trust Sansa's judgment."

Ser Barristan frowned that his advice had been overruled, but he nonetheless bowed his head in respect to her decision, "Very well, my princess."

"I'm thankful for your trust, Myrcella," Sansa said sincerely. "Will you, Prince Tommen?" She gestured to Lady.

Tommen gulped, but moved his hand towards the direwolf. His fingers were twitching, but a look of determination slowly spread across his face to mask his fear. Lady met his outstretched fingers with an initial sniff before licking them with her long, rough tongue. The reaction was immediate. Tommen giggled and his green eyes lit up.

Myrcella joined her brother in lavishing their attention on the direwolf who preened at their words and their petting. Lady would give their hands a lick and when they moved their faces closer, she would try to lick those too.

Tommen was eagerly scratching Lady in a spot on the direwolf's neck which was causing her back leg to twitch and a look of contentment to come to her face which looked odd and amusing on a direwolf.

Sansa looked relieved and happy at the scene, and was promising Lady special treats for her good behavior which the direwolf understood because she let out an appreciative yip. Sansa stepped away from Lady and towards the heart tree. "I did not think to find you in this part of the Godswood, Princess."

"I was praying."

"Praying?" Sansa was clearly caught off guard by that answer. Her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly. "Out here?"

"I was trying to," Myrcella found herself amending.

"To the old gods?" Sansa didn't look to believe her. "But you don't follow them."

"I'm to be Lady of Winterfell one day," she reminded the woman who would be her good sister. "I feel as if I should pay my respects to the gods of my future husband and his family."

Sansa smiled, a look of pride flickered across her face. "That is honorable, Myrcella." She told her, "I know Robb would appreciate that effort."

Myrcella inwardly reveled in not just Sansa's admiration but her words about her brother. It was one thing to think Robb would approve of her actions, but to have his sister confirm it only made her heart soar.

She watched as Sansa put her hand on the heart tree, her eyes looked distant, and her lips curled down slightly. Her hands moved along the tree as if searching for the faces that were carved in the weirwood trees that were found in her family's Godswood in Winterfell.

"My father told us that we couldn't lie in front of a weirwood tree," she chuckled, but the sound was not one of joy, but glumness. "He once brought me in front of the one in Winterfell to ask if I had been mean to Arya," regret colored her tone, "I had been, but I opened my mouth to deny it, but then my eyes found those carved into the bark."

She shook her head, blue eyes lost in the haze of the memory, "but that long, melancholy face and silent, judging eyes, I could not find the words." She shivered, "I could feel the power of the gods in those seconds and confessed to my poor behavior," she dropped her eyes, looking to her feet in silent shame from her past actions.

"I envy you and your sister's love for one another," Myrcella admitted, remembering how they treated one another during her brief time in Winterfell.

"We were not always like that," Sansa confessed, "But thankfully that has changed," Relief came to her face with that revelation. "I'm not sure I could've left for Winterfell or her to Bear Island knowing if it was otherwise." She then turned to Myrcella, "and soon we'll have another sister." She took her hands, "and we will love and protect you from our brothers' tricks," Sansa laughed at that.

Myrcella couldn't help but laugh along, feeling Sansa's mood infectious and the image she painted something that she very much wanted to experience. "What sort of tricks are these?" Myrcella asked once their laughter had subsided.

"Do not worry, I will warn you before you come to any serious harm to their mischief," Sansa answered in a teasing tone.

"Thanks," Myrcella responded dryly.

Sansa only giggled further at her indignation, "It is expected for some to befall you."

"Well, I expect you by my side when it does and not amongst the conspirators," Myrcella told her.

Sana replied with a smile, but gave no answer as she turned her attention back to the heart tree of the Godswood. "It'll be beneath our heart tree in Winterfell when you say your vows to my brother."

I'd say them now if I could, Myrcella had wanted to answer, remembering her enchanting dream of Robb crowning her his queen and the kiss that almost was. "You'll say yours to Domeric in front of that one too?"

"We will," Sansa confirmed, her eyes shone brightly and her lips curved in a smile at the reminder of her pending wedding to her betrothed.

Myrcella felt a stab of envy pierce her heart at seeing that reaction. Knowing her dream about Robb, the tournament and her being crowned was fueled upon seeing Domeric crown Sansa his Queen of Love and Beauty.

Their love for one another felt like a romantic tale spun from a bard waiting to be famous and heard: The tale of the Dread Knight and the Wolf Maid. A song about their northern love and how it endured in the southern scrutiny, ending with the northerner beating all southern knights and lords to crown his northern betrothed his Queen.

Myrcella's heart fluttered at how beautiful and romantic it felt. Despite her attraction to him and her hopes about her betrothal to Robb, she still worried for it, for them. She twirled a strand of her golden hair, wishing for a crown of roses that was not there.

She knew how important her time in Winterfell would be when she fostered there. It was there that she'd learn her new home, her expected duties, her future family, and most importantly about her betrothed.

Her green eyes fell on the heart tree that rose before her and Sansa. It was only then she found what prayers she needed to give to the old gods.

\----------------

"How is my Father?"

Myrcella was relieved to see that it was her favorite knight; Ser Arys Oakheart standing in front of her father's solar.

"He's had a glass or two," Ser Arys answered delicately.

"Alone?" Myrcella felt her heart ache for her mother with that one word.

"He is," Ser Arys looked uncomfortable, but whether it was because of the question or that she had asked it, she did not know.

"I'd like to speak with him, please."

"Very well," Ser Arys turned and knocked on the door, before poking his head in, "Your Grace, your daughter is here."

"Send her in," was the king's muffled voice.

"Thank you, Ser Arys," She replied kindly when the knight opened the door for her and Myrcella went inside her father's solar. Hunting tapestries covered the bare walls while the crowned stag of House Baratheon hung proudly behind her father's desk. Tall windows provided plenty of light, and the hearth had a small fire going.

She found her father sitting behind his desk, papers were scattered across it, but Myrcella was certain they hadn't been seen or touched by him. A pitcher of ale rested on a pile of papers, while the king was holding his tankard.

"Myrcella," he greeted her in his warm, rumbling voice.

"Father," She smiled.

"Why am I afforded this honor?" He rose with some difficulty from his seat to greet her where he kissed her brow.

She relished the affection from her father when she got it. She ignored the smell of ale that clung to his breath, "I wanted to see you."

He moved back to his seat behind the desk. "Your mother didn't send you did she?" his voice had gotten strained. He looked at her suspiciously. "I wouldn't put it past her to use you or Tommen to send as her little ravens carrying her messages. Hoping I'd like how they sounded coming from your voices instead of hers."

"No, Father," she wanted to quickly diffuse her father's bitterness that brought a pain to her heart. No matter how many times she heard it, it always hurt to hear either of her parents insult the other. When she was younger it use to make her cry.

She felt numb at how her parents referred to each other so callously and so openly.

"Good," His demeanor brightened remarkably, picking up the pitcher of ale, he sensed her gaze because he added, "To help with your mother."

Is this my future with Robb? Bitter arguing in front of their children with a distant, and chilly relationship with her husband that could rival any snow that blanketed Winterfell.

No, it won't happen. She vowed silently. Yet, even in her determination she could feel the fear scratching beneath trying to break through.

"I wanted to talk to you about Tommen?"

"Is he alright?" He sat up in his chair.

"He's fine, father," Myrcella got the glimpse of the father he could be, when he wanted to.

"Ser Barristan told me about the direwolf." He shook his head. "I told Ned that a direwolf isn't a bloody pet." He took a swig from his tankard. "Mayhaps, I should've listened to your mother and barred that wolf from coming into the Red Keep."

"It was a misunderstanding, father," Myrcella assured him quickly. She hadn't expected her father to have been seriously considering such a proposal. She realized that her visit had been well timed despite her not coming for that particular matter.

"Tommen likes Lady now." She couldn't forget how much her brother had giggled and smiled when he petted Lady.

"Still," He didn't look placated, "They're wild animals they don't belong in a castle." He frowned. "You don't see bloody stags and lions prancing around in the Red Keep, do you?"

Stags and lions can't coexist, Father, that was what she wanted to say, I've seen enough of you and mother to know that, she thought sadly. "Lady has done nothing wrong, Father. There have been no incidents."

"Except the one with your brother."

"A misunderstanding," she implored him. "Please, Father, I will one day be Lady of Winterfell. Have you forgotten my betrothed has one too?" Her eyes were pleading.

"Fine," he grumbled, but she saw that he wasn't bitter about it. "Stubborn like your Uncle Stannis, but more charming," He laughed.

Myrcella giggled, pleased to hear her father's loud, rumbling laughter.

"Father, I was wondering about Tommen." She broached the subject again when her father's laughter died down, counting on his jovial mood to make him more agreeable to her suggestion for her younger brother.

"What about him?"

"I was thinking about his future," she said delicately.

"Are you now?" He sounded amused.

"Yes, I have," she answered. "I was thinking of all the great stories you've told about your time in the Vale with Lord Stark under Lord Arryn." She knew her words sunk in at the look of wistfulness and creeping smile that came to her father's face.

"Those were good days."

"Exactly, father," she was silently pleased at his reaction, "Couldn't Tommen benefit from this too?" She suggested, "Lord Stark has sons near his age." She mentioned casually. "He could come to Winterfell with me and return with you after I'm married, and mayhaps even you can bring back one of Lord Stark's sons too." She wasn't certain that would go over well with Lord Stark, but Myrcella needed to make it enticing for both sides.

"Fostering?" He scratched his beard, "Tommen could use some time away from his mother." He spat the name, "Joffrey could've used some time away from her too. Hides behind her skirts so much, you'd think he was sewn onto them."

Myrcella stayed quiet at her father's hard words. Wondering if he had even visited Joffrey since he had fallen ill, she doubted it. She knew her father and her older brother had an icy, tumultuous relationship.

"But Ned would be down here with me," he pointed out, with a thoughtful frown.

"Yes," Myrcella was aware of that snag, "But Tommen would be with boys his age, and Robb is a good man. Just like his father, and there are other good men at Winterfell too."

"The nobles won't like this," he said, "One Princess married to Lord Stark and a Prince fostering at Winterfell too."

Myrcella didn't care what the other great nobles thought or wanted. All she cared about was Tommen. She'd do anything to help him. She couldn't abandon him in the capital to mother's indifference and Joffrey's cruelty. She needed to protect him.

"He's there to help me adjust to the North," She gave her father the perfect excuse to use on the protesting nobility. "Then when he returns with one of Lord Stark's sons, you can invite other noble sons to court or mayhaps Storm's End or Dragonstone."

"Settling disputes and quieting protests," he said fondly, "You will make a great Lady of Winterfell someday."

She beamed at her father's praise. Relishing the pride that filled her at being able to make him proud.

"The fact that your mother won't like this just makes it a better idea," he laughed, "I'll talk to Ned and see what he thinks on this before I make a decision."

"Thank you, Father."

\------------------

That night Myrcella found her way being escorted by Ser Arys to the Small Hall in the Tower of the Hand. She had been invited by Lord Stark for a dinner with him and his family. An invitation she had gotten days ago, she had been ecstatic when she first received it, but anxiety had slowly crept in and refused to budge.

She chose to wear a gown of her father's colors. Yellow lace and silk with black trimming, and a black stag embroidered along it. Her tummy rumbled, and she kept her hands interlocked together in front of her. The dinner was not something her mother was pleased with, but thankfully her mother had been distracted with Joffrey's sickness and had forgotten about it.

The door to the Small Hall opened when the Princess neared. She stepped inside the hall only after a slight hesitation to see it was empty of any guards and servants eating. A single table had been put forth at the center of the hall with chairs on both sides. Ser Arys excused himself quietly to take his position just inside the room.

"Princess," Sansa curtsied in greeting. The eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Stark looked beautiful in a pale blue dress, her long, auburn curls fell past her shoulders, and along her neck was a silver chain wrought with rubies. They were winking at Myrcella in the torch light.

"You must forgive my Father," she moved to meet her. "Small Council business, I'm afraid."

"I understand," Myrcella knew how much the previous Lord Hand, Jon Arryn worked to keep the realm running, and understood that responsibility to govern now fell on Lord Stark since her father wasn't keen on it. "I'm thankful for the invitation all the same."

"We're happy to have you," Sansa was at her side, "This will be the first of many family meals we'll have in the future."

"I look forward to them," Myrcella meant every word.

Sansa smiled, as the two walked together towards the table that was prepared for their intimate dinner.

Myrcella couldn't take her eyes off the ruby pendant adorned on Sansa's neck. The rubies shone and glistened along the silver chain. "That's a lovely necklace, Sansa."

Sansa's smile only grew, "Thank you, Princess," her fingers went to her neck, gingerly touching one of the rubies. "A gift from Dom," she said, her voice warm when saying the name of her betrothed, and her eyes sparkled like the red jewels on her necklace.

Seeing the rubies and knowing they came from Domeric, Myrcella wondered if he took them from his tournament armor. Remembering they were adorned with rubies, an unexpected display of wealth from the northern heir. It had made his armor popular with the court gossips. She liked to think that they did come from the armor, and she couldn't help but find it romantic.

"He gave it to me on a picnic this afternoon."

"It's beautiful," Myrcella praised, admiring the necklace.

"Thank you, Princess, you are too kind."

"Will Lord Domeric be joining us?" She hoped her tone came out as simply curious and nothing else.

"Yes," Sansa said, "He's just seeing Lady is properly fed and comfortable." She rolled her eyes, "He spoils her more than me."

Myrcella smiled at her friend's jest hoping it distracted her from the slight disappointment she feared might show on her face upon knowing that he would be joining them. She was trying to be kind and polite to him, but she hadn't felt successful. She had made another attempt at the feast when she asked him to dance, only for him to decline. Myrcella knew she surprised him when she refused to take his dismissal and instead insisted he dance with her.

He did. Though there was no conversation between them. He danced well, but it made Myrcella feel a slight chill having to meet those dark eyes. He didn't make her laugh or try to talk. He gave her no smiles or compliments. They danced in silence as the music played around them. She wondered had it been a mistake to insist he dance with her.

"Princess Myrcella."

There he stood. He entered the Small Hall, the Heir to the Dreadfort, Lord Domeric Bolton. He was wearing a dark doublet. A flay man was stitched into the cloth in dark red, while drops of pale red were peppered around the infamous Bolton blazon.

Myrcella could almost hear the flayed man's ghoulish scream. She wasn't sure how she could eat looking at such a thing throughout their meal. She turned away from it to see he had finished greeting his betrothed, and had made his way across the table, sitting opposite of Sansa.

His dark eyes were looking at her, but his expression remained guarded.

"Lord Domeric," she replied in kind, "Your name has been the talk of the capital."

"My name?" Domeric asked, "Or the name the people have given me?"

"The names may be different, but your deeds are the same," Myrcella pointed out.

"You are most kind, Princess," Domeric said in a tone that was neither kind nor unkind.

A servant came forward presenting them with the first course. It was a salad of green beans, onions, and beets.

"My father said we should start without him," Sansa told them, "And he hoped to join us when he could."

"Then we shall honor Lord Stark's request," Myrcella said politely.

"I heard your brother is sick, Princess."

"He is," Myrcella looked up from her plate to see Domeric was looking at her. She resisted the urge to shudder at the eerie feeling she felt building in her tummy at his dark eyes.

He gave no smile. No look of approval came to his expression at hearing her brother was ill. No satisfaction could be gleaned from his eyes. He may as well have been wearing a mask of pale stone.

"A pity," Sansa said politely.

"Some would call it that," Myrcella said, before stabbing the greens on her plate. She was surprised by her boldness. She wasn't the only one judging from the look Sansa had given her. Myrcella took a bite of her green beans. The sprinkling of salt on it improved the otherwise bland taste.

"It's a cruel lesson from the gods to remind us of our frailty," Domeric observed softly. "One that even Princes must learn."

She could not blame him or Sansa for not taking the news of her brother's illness with sympathy. Myrcella remembered her brother's horrid behavior at the feast, bold on drink with his insults at Domeric's expense. Her brother treated him, an heir to a powerful house like a servant.

Domeric did nothing when Joffrey had taken his drinks. There was no annoyance or anger as he was being belittled by the Crown Prince in front of the most powerful nobles throughout the realm. He hadn't looked surprised by her brother's actions. It was as if he had been expecting Joffrey to take the drink from him.

"Forgive my absence," Lord Stark entered the Small Hall abruptly.

Myrcella's thoughts snapped back to the present as she turned her head in his direction. She and the others were quick to stand at the entrance of the King's Hand, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and her future good father, Lord Stark.

"Please sit," he insisted. He was wearing grey wool, the Hand's pin attached to it, and he wore a direwolf brooch clasped at his collar.

"We only just started, Father."

"Good, so I haven't missed much," he sounded relieved, but also tired. "I'm glad you followed my instructions and started without me."

A servant came forth to bring him his first course and drink. He thanked the servant, but made no move for the food, instead drank from his glass. "I hope you may forgive my delay, Princess."

"Of course, Lord Hand," Myrcella assured him, "I understand the responsibilities and burdens that fall on you in helping to run the realm. My father is very thankful to have you at the capital."

His grey eyes looked at her, and he gave her a small, but warm smile. "You are too kind, Princess."

She felt relief swell within at receiving such a response from her future good father. Her nerves were still gnawing at her and to get such a friendly reaction from the usual solemn Lord Stark gave her a needed boost in confidence.

"I assure you that such delays are not permitted in Winterfell by my Lady Wife," Lord Stark smiled, his tone was warm at the mention of his wife, who he clearly cherished.

Myrcella had never heard Father use such a tone when describing Mother. She felt a pang in her chest and moved to take a small sip from her glass of iced water.

Before their conversation could resume and for their dinner to truly begin now that they were all seated, the doors to the Small Hall opened. Showing a man who Myrcella recognized as Lord Stark's Steward, Vayon Poole.

"My Lord Hand," he bowed.

"Council business can wait," Lord Stark sounded tired, "Until after I eat with my family."

"This isn't Council business, my Lord Hand," Steward Poole said delicately, "A man from the Night's Watch is here to see you."

"Very well," Lord Stark didn't make to get up. "House Stark has long been friends with the Night's Watch. Give him a good room and a warm meal and I'll see to him in the morning and let him have his pick of the dungeons."

"My Lord Hand," The steward shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "He isn't alone. Jon Snow is with him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the great feedback on the last chapter. And to all those who've taken the time to leave a comment on previous chapters. It really means a lot. And it really does serve as a great source of inspiration. So thank you. 
> 
> Enjoy the weekend,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	28. Jon

Here he was.

Jon stood in the solar to the Hand of the King. He had made it. He had arrived to the capital.

It had been his destination since he had left the Wall and the Watch behind him so many weeks ago. He had dreamed and thought of the capital often as they traveled. His father's words never far from him, the promise he made when they departed Winterfell; Jon to go north to the wall while his father went to serve the king as the Hand.

However, the arrival felt hollow to him now. He was supposed to be arriving with Lord Tyrion. It had been Lannister who had made his generous offer to let Jon accompany him south to the capital. However, Lord Tyrion was not here. He had been taken captive.

Jon instinctively winced as the memory brought a prickle of pain to flare up from the wound he had gotten from that sellsword. He moved his hand to rub the sore spot on the back of his head. Even days after it had passed, he still couldn't understand what had possessed Lady Stark to make such a bold, and foolish decision by abducting Lord Tyrion.

Had she gone mad in grief? Jon knew she bore him no kindness. She showed him nothing but contempt since he was old enough to remember. So to realize that she had left him in that Inn in her mad dash after absconding with Lord Tyrion was not a surprise to him.

Thankfully, he had been saved from theft and abuse by Lord Tyrion's other traveling companion, Yoren. Jon could still remember waking up sore and confused. His hands were tied to his saddle. For a moment, he feared he had been taken prisoner by one of the sellswords or knights within the Inn or even by Lady Stark herself. His fear was alleviated when it was the wandering crow, Yoren who greeted him. Riding along them was Jon's direwolf, Ghost.

Yoren had told him of their race to reach the capital to inform his father what had happened on the road between Lady Stark and Lord Tyrion. Exhausted and sore they had reached the capital in a hasty two night, three day ride. Jon wouldn't forget the looks he and Yoren had gotten when they entered the city or the stares that followed Ghost when his direwolf trailed behind him.

Their reactions were comical and Jon did his best to hide his smile. He was certain it must have been a strange and even terrifying sight to see a creature from legend such as the direwolf. Large and fierce with eyes the color of blood running through the city.

When they finally reached the Red Keep, they were greeted by the Stark banner that waved down from them from above the highest turret of the Tower of the Hand. He remembered from his lessons with Maester Luwin that the family sigil of the Hand of the King flew above the Tower of the Hand. In this case it was his father's banner, the grey direwolf running across an ice field.

It was there that he had been separated from his traveling companion, Yoren. The Crow was taken to a room by Steward Poole who had been surprised to see Jon. He then instructed one of the Stark household guards to take Jon to Lord Stark's solar.

Jon looked around said solar. He noticed elegant metalwork along the metal bars that divided the solar in two; the bars had been carved to form a sprinting direwolf. This felt nothing like his father's study in Winterfell. Myrish carpet covered the floor in bright colors. Foreign and elegant carvings and statues were placed throughout the room to further give the appearance of opulence.

There was no warmth in this room. It was decadent and hollow.

He knew that Yoren was probably at this moment informing his father about what had happened on the road. His gut twisted at thinking how his father would react to what he had done when Lady Stark had tried to take Lord Tyrion. Jon hoped he'd understand, but he feared his father may see Jon's actions as him siding with the Lannisters over his blood.

Lady Stark isn't my blood, a small voice was quick to remind him. She was content with him to waste away at the Wall. It had been Tyrion who had shown concern for him and his future.

I spoke up for my blood, he told himself, For Robb, Bran, for Lord Stark and the honor of House Stark. An incident such as the one Lady Stark performed could tarnish a house's reputation. As well as earn the wrath of the powerful and feared House Lannister.

Jon remembered what Lord Tywin had done to his rebellious bannermen who had disrespected his family's house. Houses Reyne and Tarbeck were only remembered in songs to serve as a warning to those who roused the fury of the Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock. He shuddered thinking about how Lord Tywin would react to the news that his son had been abducted.

Shuffling footsteps broke him out of his thoughts. Jon turned to the door when he heard loud sniffing. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Ghost rising to his feet, red eyes on the door, tail swatting slowly. The door opened, and a blur of grey burst into the room, yipping happily as Lady made her way to Ghost.

Lady has grown, Jon noticed at once. She and Ghost had been the smallest of their litter. Ghost was now large and tall, and while Lady was smaller than his direwolf, she was no less intimidating. Ghost greeted his littermate by nipping her ear fondly while Lady nuzzled her head against his snow fur, tail wagging happily.

"Jon."

He just had time to turn before he found himself engulfed by Sansa. He awkwardly patted her back, her copper curls falling in front of his face, his nose twitched at the flowery scent he smelled. He couldn't quell the happiness he felt at being reunited with his sister.

Finally, they broke apart, and Jon was surprised to see Sansa like her direwolf had grown. She was always tall, but she was now slightly taller than him, which he didn't remember being the case when they all left Winterfell. She was dressed in silks and laces, and he noticed the ruby necklace that adorned her neck. She looked like a southern noblewoman, he realized.

"Jon." The heir to the Dreadfort moved forward to greet him. He was dressed in a dark doublet that proudly displayed his family's blazon.

Jon couldn't help but wonder how the Bolton flayed man was received here in the capital. He had to smother a snort of amusement at picturing the scandalous faces of the southern lords and ladies who saw it.

"Domeric."

He extended his hand and Jon shook it, before Domeric pulled him closer to slap his back with a chuckle. "You are a most welcomed surprise."

"Yes, you are," Sansa was smiling in agreement. "But, I don't understand," Sansa's smile dipped, her brows furrowed, "why are you here?"

"Did they make you a Wandering Crow?" Domeric asked.

"He didn't join."

Three heads turned to see Lord Stark step into his solar. His grey eyes were looking at Jon closely. He tried his best not to wince under his father's intense gaze, knowing that Yoren must have finished telling him what had happened at the inn.

"Really?" Sansa's tone colored with surprise. She turned to him, a hopeful look on her face.

"Yes," Jon answered, "I didn't join."

"That's wonderful," Sansa declared happily, before a touch of guilt flickered across her face, "I mean if that's what you wanted."

"It is," he was touched by her consideration.

"Good," Sansa looked pleased that it had been his decision.

"What happened?" Domeric had moved to stand beside his betrothed, but his eyes were shifting between Jon and to Lord Stark. "What's going on?"

"Jon and a brother of the Night's Watch came to warn me," Lord Stark said before Jon could answer.

"Warn you?" Sansa repeated.

"Yes," Lord Stark confirmed.

"I didn't mean-" His words were clumsy and awkward as he tried to explain himself, but he stopped when his Lord Father held up his hand.

"Yoren has told me everything."

Jon gulped nervously, unable to decipher his father's look. His face looked as if it was carved from stone, like the many Stark kings whose statues lined the crypts of Winterfell.

"Lord Stark?" Domeric asked respectfully, "What's happening?"

"Lady Stark has taken Lord Tyrion Lannister hostage under my orders," Lord Stark answered simply, but his eyes were on Jon when he spoke them.

"Father-" Jon protested at once, knowing that it couldn't be true.

"That is the truth of it, Jon," Lord Stark's voice brooked no argument.

Jon bowed his head, his objection dying on his tongue. Not wanting to see his father's stony expression, he looked over to see Domeric and Sansa were equal parts surprised and confused with this revelation. Jon couldn't blame them. He had difficulty understanding it and he had been there to witness it.

"Soon all of the capital will know," Lord Stark continued, "And they will know that she acted on my orders," he told them, "By Hand of the King."

Jon understood now. His father was shielding Lady Stark from a reprisal by Lord Tywin Lannister, the Warden of the West. By protecting her under the office of the Hand of the King, the Lord of Casterly Rock had to be more careful in how he would react to this embarrassment and insult to his house.

"Father, why?" Sansa had gasped at the news.

"That is not your concern," he said, "What's important is that we remain united," He looked at his eldest daughter expectantly, "You know why, right?"

"Yes, father." Sansa straightened up, "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

"Aye, that's right, child," a proud smile came to his face. "We are that pack," he looked to Domeric and then Jon, his grey eyes lingering on him. "All of us."

Jon nodded at his father's words. He remembered being told them often at Winterfell growing up, but here at the capital after what had happened, the words meant more now. He wasn't a child anymore, safe behind the walls of the Stark's ancestral home. He was in King's Landing and he was ready to do his duty for his blood.

Lord Stark moved towards the hearth where Ghost and Lady were curled up beside each other, both direwolves raised their heads upon his arrival, watching him with silent interest.

"Summer is the time for squabbles," he reminded them. "In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths."

Jon looked to see Sansa had taken their father's words to heart. Determination shone in her Tully blue eyes, but despite Lady Stark's coloring, Jon saw their father in Sansa's expression.

Domeric too was listening intently to Lord Stark's words. His hand entwined with Sansa, but his focus was solely on the Lord of Winterfell.

"We have come to a dangerous place," He lowered his hand for the direwolves to sniff, Lady was first, sniffing only for a second before licking his outstretched fingers, "We have enemies who mean us harm, who mean to divide us."

He looked at them expectantly. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes," they chorused without hesitation.

"Then that is enough for tonight." He dismissed them.

"Father," Jon began softly watching as Sansa and Domeric were already moving towards the door. Jon knew he needed to speak before his courage left him.

Lord Stark turned to him. If he knew what Jon was going to say or ask, he did not show it.

"You promised me," Jon whispered, not certain what other words or pleas he could use to get his father to listen.

Those words seemed to crack his father's expression. Something flashed in his grey eyes, "Domeric?"

"Yes, my lord?" Domeric sounded surprised to be called on.

"You spoke of peaceful places on the Blackwater that you've found on your morning rides."

"Yes, my lord."

"I'll have you ride out on the morning with me to show me the best one."

"Of course, my lord."

"Good," Lord Stark turned to Jon, who felt hope blooming in his chest, "I have need of one. It is time for me to speak with my son of things long since promised."

\---------

"Jon," Sansa greeted him the following morning.

"Sansa," he yawned. He was quick to cover his mouth with his hand. "My apologies,"

His sister only giggled before shaking her head. "Did you not sleep well?"

"No," he took his seat across from her.

They were breaking their fast in the intimate dining chamber where the Hand could eat quietly with family or confidants without having to use the Small Hall where servants and guards of the household tended to eat.

"I'm sorry to hear that," She gave him a sympathetic look.

He had tossed and turned throughout the night. His stomach a bundle of nerves and excitement that was coiled together tightly.

The servants' arrival brought his attention to the meal before him to see them presenting a course that included fish fried with onions, and bacon, bread, and freshly squeezed juice.

He watched as Sansa skillfully instructed the servants of the Stark household. Seeing her now, he knew she should have no problem running the household at the Dreadfort. "Shouldn't we wait for Domeric and Father?"

"It's just the two of us this morning," she answered, "Father and Domeric have already ridden out."

That got Jon's attention. He felt the drowsiness slip away "Truly?"

"Yes," Sansa confirmed.

He looked down at his food. He found he had little appetite to eat.

"Jon," Sansa said gently.

He raised his eyes from his plate and met his sister's concerned gaze.

"You should eat," she encouraged.

He didn't respond.

"Jon," she repeated, a bit of steel in her voice, "eat."

"Yes, my lady," he replied dryly.

Sansa sent him a feigning glower for his tone and he returned it with a smile.

Jon then picked up his bread. Taking a cautious bite, he chewed and swallowed, and pleased to discover that his stomach wasn't protesting. Relieved, he then dipped his bread in his bacon grease and took a larger bite, savoring the taste.

Ghost nudged his arm. His red eyes were looking at him expectantly. Jon obliged him, giving his direwolf a piece of his bacon which Ghost took gently with his jaws before devouring it quickly.

Jon looked across the table wondering if Sansa would scold him for feeding his direwolf at the table only to see Sansa doting on Lady with a piece of her fish. He chuckled, getting his sister's attention; she looked sheepish at getting caught.

"Mayhaps, we should eat some of this food as well?" He joked.

Sansa giggled, "of course," she was spreading jam onto her bread, "I'm sure this is better than anything you've eaten on the road."

"It is," Jon took a loud bite of the crisp bacon.

Leaving the Wall and the days before they reached Winterfell, they ate dried jerky, apples, and bread. Not a bad meal, but a bland one. Though, once they crossed into the Riverlands they were able to find quality Inns thanks to Lord Tyrion and their meals were rich and fulfilling.

"Have you enjoyed the capital?"

"It has been pleasant," Sansa answered politely.

Jon frowned. He could tell that his sister didn't seem comfortable with providing him a further explanation so he didn't press further.

"How was the tournament?" Jon had seen the knights and lords during his travel south with Lord Tyrion, streaming on the road with their colorful banners and shimmering armor all venturing to the capital for the Tourney. In the evening, they crowded the halls of inns, talking and boasting about their skills and chances for anyone to hear.

Sansa immediately brightened at the question. "It was wonderful."

Jon smothered the teasing smile that threatened to slip at seeing a glimpse of his sister's past self. He could almost imagine Arya sitting beside her, rolling her eyes and sticking out her tongue. The reminder of his sister brought a pang of sadness to him.

Since leaving the Wall he had seen all of his siblings except for her since she was fostering with the Mormonts at Bear Island. Jon doubted he'd see her again until the wedding between Domeric and Sansa. An event that was still many months away.

I'll write to her, he'd let her know that he didn't join the Watch. The only regret would be that he wouldn't be able to see her face when she found out that he didn't take his oath. The thought of her reaction made him smile.

"How so?" Jon tried to keep the amusement out of his voice.

"Dom won," Sansa gushed, "and he was brilliant. He beat Ser Jaime and Ser Loras in the final tilts."

"Is that right?" Jon was a bit disappointed that he'd miss that. He'd enjoy the sight of seeing his friend putting several southern knights into the ground. Jon didn't even need to ask who Domeric had crowned his Queen of Love and Beauty.

"Yes," Sansa was clearly proud of her betrothed's accomplishments. Her hands instinctively went to her hair as if brushing a phantom crown.

"Sounds wonderful," He was cutting up his fish, aware that Ghost's eyes were on him.

"It was," Sansa told him, "Despite the efforts of certain stags."

Her shift in tone caught Jon by surprise. The warmth of her tone had cooled considerably. Jon knew of which stag she was referring to. He remembered just how spoiled the Crown Prince had been during his brief time at Winterfell.

After that they ate in relative silence. It was not an uncomfortable where neither knew what to say, but a peaceful quiet much like the ones he had sometimes shared with Robb back at Winterfell when they took their meals together in the great hall while their brothers and sisters were still sleeping.

It was odd, Jon thought, sitting across from Sansa, the sibling for the longest time who had the least interactions with him. She called him half brother and didn't seek him out or spend time with him. Unless he was with Robb and that was only when they were younger. Then she preferred to spend her time with Jeyne and Beth.

She had changed, matured. He could still remember being caught off guard when she cornered him one evening to apologize to him for her rude behavior and for calling him half brother. Jon had accepted it much to her relief, and the time between them had only improved from there.

"Have you seen much of the Red Keep?"

"No," Jon answered. As soon as he and Yoren arrived they were escorted straight to the Tower of the Hand.

"I'll be happy to give you a tour if you like?" Sansa asked hopefully.

"I'd like that," Jon smiled.

Sansa returned it. "Wonderful," she sounded pleased, "Some of it is rather impressive, but it's not Winterfell."

He detected the wistfulness in her voice. "No," he agreed without hesitation. "It isn't."

"You must go riding with us," Sansa insisted, "Lady loves the Blackwater Rush," she turned to her direwolf who met her gaze, tail wagging slightly. Sansa rewarded her with a bit of her bacon.

"How often do you go riding?"

"Domeric goes every day."

That didn't surprise Jon. He knew his friend loved to ride, remembering the many hunts and rides they went on in the Wolfswood outside of Winterfell, him, Theon, Robb and Domeric. Theon would jape that a flayed centaur would serve a better sigil for the Heir to the Dreadfort. Domeric didn't consider it a compliment.

Occasionally, they were joined by Sansa, Arya, and Bran, but when they were, they couldn't ride as fast or as far. Still those were some of Jon's favorites. Recalling the differences of his younger siblings and how they took to it.

Arya was determined and focus to match their speed. Often trying to race her brothers and Domeric to try to prove she belonged with them. She hardly won. However, seeing her smile and laugh as she trotted after them always brought a smile to Jon's lips.

Bran was their shadow. He was never far from Robb or Jon. He was always watching them. Seeing how they sat in their saddle, how they held the reins, how they adjusted as they rode. He tried to absorb everything he could.

Sansa's riding had been the poorest out of the three of them at the beginning. She had been taught to ride like a southern lady. That did her no good when they were trotting through the Wolfswood.

Soon, I'll be riding out with Father, the reminder brought a jolt of anxiety to strum through him. His stomach wriggled and grappled with that pending conversation where the truth would be finally told to him. Now, as he waited, so many emotions were warring within.

Nervousness, excitement, fear, happiness, he felt them all, but they were all tangled up in knots in his gut.

"Jon?"

"I'm fine."

"I'll be here for you afterwards," she hesitated, before adding, "If you want to speak."

He knew it wasn't curiosity but concern that prompted her invitation. Her words helped to soothe the nervous energy that was thrumming within his stomach. "Thank you," he nodded at her kindness.

"Now, tell me about the capital."

Thankfully, she understood, and she acquiesced.

For the remainder of their meal, Jon didn't think or worry about his conversation with his father and the revelations that would stem from it. He enjoyed his meal in the presence of his sister and their direwolves, smiling and talking.

He couldn't have asked for a better way to spend his morning.

\---------

Jon raised his practice sword just in time to deflect Domeric's thrust.

Their blades clashed.

A frown came to Domeric's features, certain he had his victory. Drops of sweat appeared on his brow, his face set in concentration.

Jon pushed his sword a way with a grunt. He had missed these practiced bouts. His arms ached. He felt sweat trickling down his face. He hadn't fought or trained since he left the Wall. Those had been overseen by the spiteful master-at-arms, Ser Alliser Thorne, whose black eyes glistened with hate, and who was always quick with an insult or a sneer.

Domeric backed away warily. Sword raised and ready for Jon's attack, but in the seconds that passed, he seemed almost thankful for the brief reprieve.

Jon lashed out suddenly to try catch his friend off balance. His sword raised high he delivered his strike. Domeric met it with his blade, trying to set his feet to help absorb the blow. Jon was quick to move his sword and thrust low which Domeric blocked, but his speed was seeping out of him.

He pushed forward before quickly pulling his sword away, Domeric faltered at the move and that was when Jon delivered the ending stroke. His sword moving swiftly before Domeric's sword could deflect it and the tip of his sword tapped Domeric's chest plate, "Yield?"

"I yield," Domeric admitted.

Jon let out a loose breath, feeling the aches and exertion taking their toll now that his concentration on the bout had ended. Despite the dull pain, Jon had relished it.

"You've gotten better," Jon said honestly. It had been some time since he had trained, and he was bit out of practice, but he couldn't deny that his friend had improved.

"An innocent enough compliment," Domeric remarked, "Though it makes your victory sweeter." He handed his sword to a waiting page. "No triumph in beating a poor opponent."

Jon only chuckled at his friend's dry tone. "The capital has made you suspicious."

"Aye," Domeric agreed. "But I thought I had you there."

"You nearly did," Jon pushed aside his brown hair that threatened to fall over his face.

"Shall we cross lances next?" Domeric asked innocently enough.

"No," Jon declined swiftly, but politely.

"Pity," Domeric's lips curved up.

As they moved to leave the training yard of Red Keep, they passed a pair of gossiping knights of House Lannister.

"All he does is heave and shit," the first one said.

"Some are calling him the privy prince," The second one replied.

"He'll be better soon," the first knight said, "this sickness can't keep a lion down for long."

"I heard he'll make an appearance tonight with his mother," the second one added, "To show his strength and to see he's on the mend."

Their voices faded away as Jon and Domeric walked deeper into the corridors that went through the Red Keep and led back to the Tower of the Hand.

"It was just at the feast of the closing of the tournament did I drink to the prince's health," Domeric remarked, "such a pity to hear of these stomach ailments."

Jon glanced over at his friend to see his eyes meet his, but the rest of his expression was carefully concealed to look impassive.

"You know Lord Stark is neither the first northerner nor Stark to hold the office of Hand of the King."

"Cregan Stark," Jon provided the answer, who was pleased with the change in conversation.

"He came into the fold on the side of Rhaeynra Targaryen," Domeric said, "During the Dance of the Dragons."

"The Pact of Ice and Fire," Jon remembered.

"Yes, a Princess Targaryen for House Stark." The two friends neared the Tower of the Hand. Even at its height, they could see the Stark banner swaying in the breeze, both knowing of the running direwolf on an ice field even if their eyes couldn't see it.

"Lord Dustin commanded the Winter Wolves," Domeric remarked, "A famous lord and a favorite tale among the people of Barrowton."

"Lord Stark followed Lord Dustin with his army," Jon said, "His forces were made up of men who were childless, unwed, second and third sons, and bastards." That part of Luwin's teaching always resonated with Jon as he learned it beside Robb and Sansa. "They joined to spare their families the burdens of having to support them in the winter."

Domeric frowned, but before he could speak up, they were greeted by two of House Stark's guards at the entryway into the Tower. They exchanged quick exchanges before they went inside.

"The Hour of the Wolf," Domeric recited.

"He saw over twenty men arrested for the murder of Aegon the second," Jon had always been proud of his ancestor and the work he had done in his brief time as Hand of the King. Now, he prayed that his Lord Father found similar success in rooting out those who were responsible for the death of the previous Hand, Lord Arryn.

"And presided over their trials and executions," Domeric said, "He killed them himself."

"That is the old way," Jon remembered his Father killing that deserter of the Night's Watch the day Robb found the dead direwolf and its litter of pups.

"Our way," Pride laced Domeric's tone. Just like House Stark, House Bolton was descended from the First Men. They honored the traditions that were passed down by their ancestors, such as the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

"I'm sure the southern nobles were scandalized by that," Domeric smiled.

"Aye, I bet they were." Jon chuckled, "He then left the capital after only staying for less than a week." He hoped his father's stay at the capital would be brief too.

"Do not forget that he once sparred with Ser Aemon the Dragonknight."

"And Ser Aemon claimed he had never fought a finer swordsman." The Dragonknight had always been one of Jon's favorite characters. How often had he claimed to be Ser Aemon when he and Robb played their games at Winterfell? Too many to count, he thought with a smile.

"He never got his Targaryen Princess," Domeric pointed out.

"No, he didn't," The idea of a Targaryen Princess marrying into his father's house felt strange to Jon. The image of silver haired and purple eyed Starks ruling the north from Winterfell seemed like an absurd notion.

"Jon," Steward Poole was coming to meet them. "Lord Stark is waiting for you at the stables."

\---------------

Jon looked out to see his Lord Stark had instructed Jory and his household guards to fan out in order to prevent their conversation to be interrupted. Ghost stalked quietly along the Blackwater Rush, exploring the area around him with silent intensity, red eyes glancing this way and that. It had been his Father who had asked for Jon's direwolf to accompany them. A request Jon did not mind since he wanted the presence of Ghost anyways.

Now watching his direwolf stalk through the low branches of trees and bushes that had nestled on the banks of the river, Jon understood why his father wanted Ghost. The direwolf's keen senses would be able to snuff out any unwelcomed guest.

Jon turned away from his inquisitive direwolf to see his Lord Father was approaching him after giving his instructions to his household guard. He had yet to speak to Jon since they left the stables of the Red Keep.

His father was wearing what Bran called, His lord's face. That was when their father's warm expression hardened and his eyes turn into chips of stone. It was an intimidating gaze that brought a slight quiver to go through Jon making him unable to meet his father's stare.

"Jon," his father's voice was softer then his look.

Jon raised his head to see Lord Stark's lips quirk up ever so slightly, bringing a bit of relief to Jon's gnawing nerves. His lord's face had been put aside.

"I did not want you come to the capital."

Whatever relief Jon had just felt disappeared in an instant with his father's honest words.

"I couldn't, Father," Jon confessed, "I couldn't join them. It wasn't like it was supposed to be."

He wondered if his illusions of the Watch and the Wall were any different than the ones Sansa once had of the southern court? They had both been wrong to believe such foolish stories. Thankfully, they both realized the truth before it was too late.

"I am glad that you did not join the Watch, Jon."

"Father?" Jon hadn't been expecting that.

"You are young," Lord Stark said, "And I had hoped that you would stay at Winterfell to help Robb when I went south."

Gladly, Jon had wanted to say, but he kept quiet. He didn't need to name the reason why he didn't remain at Winterfell to help his brother.

"Lady Stark was adamant that you leave," Father said bluntly. "Maester Luwin had told me that you had shown an interest to join the Watch. He thought it an ideal solution and my Lady Wife agreed."

"By trying to honor my wife I failed you." He raised his arm, "Come, we have much to discuss."

Jon didn't trust his voice so he nodded instead. He fell into step with his father as they slowly walked towards the roaring river that stretched out before them.

"Do you know the words of House Arryn, Jon?"

Caught off guard by the question it took him a few seconds to remember them, "High as Honor."

"That's right," his father nodded, "Lord Arryn instilled them into me while I was a boy fostering in the Vale. Words I've tried to live by all my life."

Ghost emerged between bushes, red eyes on them for a second before moving towards the riverbank.

"I made you a promise, but I never imagined telling you the truth of your mother here," his eyes were looking in the direction of the capital.

"However, it is a promise I intend to keep."

Jon sagged in relief, "Thank you, Father."

"Don't thank me yet, Jon," he said cautiously. "You may not like the answers you get."

"What do you mean?"

His father sighed as they neared the riverbank. Ghost was already there, lapping up some of the water. He raised his head to regard them before he went back to drinking.

"I loved your mother, Jon." He admitted, "I loved her, stubborn and fierce as she was."

"I-Is she still alive?"

"No," his father's voice touched with sadness.

Jon took the news with a tight nod. He had feared as much. He had prayed and hoped that she lived and was out there, waiting for him to find her. A foolish dream, a small voice chided him. He blinked before tears could swell in his eyes.

"Who was she?"

His father put his hand on Jon's arm before pulling him closer."Lyanna Stark," Father whispered in his ear. His grip on Jon's arm tightened when he added, "Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback. It's always great to hear from you. 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	29. Arya

"You wanted to see me Lady Mormont?"

According to her Septa, Arya should've ended her question with a curtsey as she was presenting herself to the Lady of Bear Island. In the beginning of her stay Arya had done so, much to the amusement of Lady Mormont. She later informed Arya that sort of etiquette would not be needed between the two women. That had made Arya incredibly happy and thankful.

Maester Mathis stood behind her, tall and frail in his grey robes, he was as thin as a reed, a complete contrast to the short and stout Lady Mormont who wore her ringmail armor. They were in the solar in Lady Mormont's private chambers.

It was a small room Arya was certain her chambers in Winterfell were larger. It was square shaped, a hearth was lit as burnt logs brought warmth and light into the solar. Above the fireplace was the proud bear of House Mormont. A circular table anchored the room, the legs of it were carved to resemble standing bears with its hands holding up the top of the table.

"I did," Lady Mormont confirmed, she had not taken her seat standing on the other side of the table where Arya had entered. "I received a raven from Castle Black from my brother. Do you know who he is?"

"The Lord Commander," Arya answered,

"There's a clever girl," Lady Mormont approved. "Aye, he is. He was once Lord of Bear Island and fought beside your father in Robert's Rebellion," she moved to take her seat. "When he took the Black, the title passed to his son," her face darkened at his mention, "He fought beside your father in the Greyjoy's failed rebellion."

Arya hadn't thought it possible but Lady Mormont's face darkened further with the inclusion of the Greyjoys, her voice thick with contempt. She took this time to follow the Lady of Bear Island's lead and sat opposite her while Maester Mathis made no move to join them at the table. He stood silently at Lady Mormont's shoulder like a tall, gray statue.

"One of his last acts of honor before the shame he brought to our house," she spat, "Mayhaps, he should've died on Pyke instead of receiving the knighthood and the attention that followed."

"Lady Mormont," Mathis looked stunned at her blunt admission.

She dismissed his voice with a clenched fist and he quieted instantly.

"I loved my nephew, Maester," She told the man garbed in grey without giving him a look, "that is why the shame he brought to our house hurts so much." Her gnarled hands rested on the table, "That southern whore didn't belong here."

"The Hightowers are a respected-"

"Southern family," Maege Mormont finished for him, "but this is the North." At those words she sent Arya a toothy smile, "Bah, enough of this prattle. I didn't invite Lady Arya here to give her a history lesson on my nephew's mistakes." Without looking at him she held out her hand expectantly.

Silently and quickly, Mathis produced a thin piece of parchment from one of the pockets within his robe and placed it on Lady Mormont's waiting hand. "My brother wrote to me about your bastard brother."

Arya clenched her teeth at how casual and blunt Lady Mormont was in her description of Jon. The annoyance soon passed and was replaced with curiosity.

Has he joined the Watch officially? That was her first and worse fear.

She remembered the only letter she had received from him since he left for the Wall. It told her about how he was adjusting to Castle Black and getting along with the other new recruits, mentioning how soon he'd call them brothers. Arya had been so angry she had crumpled the letter as soon as she read it.

You have brothers! She wanted to write, Robb, Bran, and Rickon. If you take the Black you may gain brothers, but you'll lose your sisters. She had cried into her pillow that night, I won't be your little sister anymore.

"He tells me that your brother has left the Wall."

Arya blinked. "What do you mean?"

"He left in the company of Tyrion Lannister."

"The Imp?" Arya didn't understand. Why would Jon be traveling with him? They didn't even know each other, she thought.

"Yes," Lady Mormont looked amused, "He tells me that your bastard brother left before he took his vows."

"Truly?" Arya didn't believe it, couldn't dare to.

"Aye," the Lady of Mormont confirmed.

Elation filled her at the confirmation that her brother had decided to hold off on taking his vows.

"There is more," Maester Mathis's soft words and cautioned tone broke through Arya's mood.

"What do you mean?"

"He's in the possession of my family's ancestral sword, Longclaw." Maege answered, "A parting gift from my brother."

Valyrian steel, Arya understood. Her family had one as well-Ice. She was in awe of it. She knew how rare and valuable the sword was and how each family who boasted a valyrian steel sword took special pride in theirs.

"What sort of man is your brother?" he asked, "besides being a bastard."

"He is my brother," She declared fiercely, glaring up at the Maester.

Lady Mormont chuckled at that, "Careful, Mathis." Her eyes twinkled in amusement, "It isn't wise to upset or insult a wolf and her pack."

"Jon is kind, strong, and brave."

The words seemed inadequate to Arya's ears. How could she explain Jon to them? How could they understand the comfort he would give them after Jeyne's cruel jests or her own fears of being a bastard? She loved Robb, Bran, and Rickon, but Jon was different.

She didn't have her mother's look. She looked like a Stark. Arya looked like Jon. How could she describe how happy she was, knowing he wasn't lost to her at the Wall or how much it meant to her when he'd tussle her hair and call her, little sister.

Thinking about Jon had caused her hand to instinctively move to rest on the pommel of Needle. He gave it as a gift to her, an encouragement. Jon never tried to tell her what she could or couldn't do. He only loved her.

"He gave me this," Arya pulled Needle from her holster and proudly displayed it to them.

Lady Mormont looked impressed as her eyes inspected the sword, her lips curved in approval at such a gift.

"Mayhaps, instead of returning Longclaw to your brother at Castle Black, he should come to Bear Island," Mathis suggested.

"Longclaw is my brother's until his watch has ended," she argued stubbornly.

"Yes, but Jon could deliver it to your heir and the next Lady of Bear Island who has the right to claim it," the maester proposed, smoothly passing over the Lady of Bear Island's words.

"Dacey?" She turned to regard her maester, "what grey scheme is this?

"Not a scheme, my lady," he bowed his head at her stare, "Just a thought." His hands were fidgeting against one of the links in his chain. "He doesn't have the name, but he has the Stark blood," the maester pointed out. "Their children would be Mormonts, and it would tie Bear Island to Winterfell."

"You must forgive my maester, Pup," Lady Mormont turned to face Arya with an impassive look. "He thinks women are only for babes and betrothals," She reached down and withdrew her worn axe that had been resting in its holster and held it up to examine in the light. "He forgets that we too have hands and can use them for blades."

Maester Mathis paled behind the Lady of Bear Island. His eyes taking in the axe that Lady Mormont held in her hand with a frightened look. "My lady, I-"

"Enough," She silenced him with her stern tone. "Lord Stark has given my house a tremendous honor by letting us foster one of his children in our home." She inclined her head in Arya's direction. "I will not neglect it and then ask for a second." Her mouth twisted, "It is unseemly."

"Of course, my lady," he bowed his head. "I meant no offense to either you or House Stark."

"Your words have wisdom, Maester," Maege admitted, "That is why I trust your counsel."

"You honor me," Color seemed to return to his face at her assuring words.

"However, you must respect the hall in which you serve," She stood from her seat. "This is House Mormont, and here we stand," she pointed to the blazon of her family that was etched above the hearth. "We are mothers and daughters, but we are also warriors." She holstered her axe and turned back to the maester.

"And there is a time to discuss betrothals, and there is a time not to," her eyes flickered over to Arya for the briefest of seconds before returning to Mathis. It had happened so quickly Arya could've imagined it.

A look of realization flickered across his face and his lips almost seemed to twitch into a smile, "I understand."

Satisfied, the Lady of Bear Island turned back to Arya. "Thank you, for your words on your brother. He seems a fine enough man to carry Longclaw, until he returns it to my brother at the Wall."

She then moved around the table, "Come, Pup." She put a calloused hand on Arya's shoulder, "Let me see what my daughter has taught you."

\------------------

The sun was settling in the sky casting Mormont keep in an orange glow when Arya exited the stables. After breaking her fast she had tended and groomed Dacey's horse while the horse master watched on, offering instructions and guidance when she needed it.

It had been one of her normal tasks that she was expected to do each day. One of many that Dacey Mormont had given her since Arya had become her squire in all but name. She didn't mind it.

Arya liked to feed and brush Dacey's horse; A well mannered, but aging brown courser that Dacey favored for her hunts and patrols across Bear Island. The courser was named Rodrik though Dacey affectionately called him Rod. She named him after Rodrik Stark, the King in the North who had given Bear Island to House Mormont. Arya remembered that from Maester Luwin.

She also remembered Theon's boast afterwards. He had claimed that if they had a rematch that he'd win the island back for the Ironborn. He had worn that smirk he always wore. She didn't want to think how stupid Theon would be and how annoying his smirk would get if he was proven right. Bran and Arya had protested his claim while Jon rolled his eyes and Domeric hadn't seemed to have listened or cared.

It had been Robb who had taken it as a challenge. And soon he and Theon were wrestling on the ground of the practice yard, fighting over the supposed fate of Bear Island. She and Bran had cheered for Robb until their voices were hoarse; their noise bringing others to the yard including curious guards and dismayed servants.

Father had stopped them. With his lord's voice that brought instant silence to the commotion, the wrestling stopped immediately, both Robb and Theon looking sheepish. While the guards and servants scurried back to their patrols and duties. Wearing his lord's face, he demanded what Robb and Theon were doing and why.

Robb had answered honestly.

Lord Eddard Stark had smiled before laughing. That had cracked the tension that had fallen over the practice yard like fresh ice. He then told Robb that House Stark was depending on him with a warm chuckle. Soon the mirth spread and all were sharing smiles and laughter.

Home, she thought fondly, her hand going to Needle which she always wore. Arya trained with other weapons under Dacey Mormont's tutelage including swords, daggers, axes, bows, and shields, rarely Needle. The Heir to Bear Island had confessed she wasn't aware of a proper way to instruct Arya with such a thin blade, but Arya didn't mind. Needle wasn't just a blade it was so much more.

It was Winterfell and that was why she wore it. Arya may not use Needle often, but it was never far from her mind or her reach. Whenever she felt a pang of melancholy in her chest she'd touch the smooth pommel of Needle.

Then she'd see Robb's smile or hear Sansa's laugh. Or remember how Jon tussled her hair and called her little sister. She'd watch Bran and Rickon running through the Godswood, playing and laughing. Or listen to Dom elicit soft and sweet sounds from his harp. Even Theon's stupid smirk came to her mind's eye when she thought of Winterfell.

They were her pack.

A grey blur captured her attention and Arya blinked back into the present just in time to receive her direwolf, Nymeria who stopped before her. Tongue lolling out to the side, specks of mud clung to her paws and her grey fur was disheveled, but Arya didn't care about the dirt or the grime as she embraced her direwolf without hesitation.

Nymeria responded by licking Arya's ear eliciting a giggle from her as she finally pulled away from the direwolf. Arya had to send her away when she tended to Dacey's horse in the stable as the horses grew frightened and restless once they caught Nymeria's scent. Her direwolf didn't seem to mind as she was quick to leave the high wooden walls of Mormont Keep to explore Bear Island. Sometimes for more than just a day, there had been nights where Arya didn't have Nymeria to share her bed as her direwolf was still out.

She looked down at her tunic to see new stains of mud and earth. Septa Mordane would've fainted in fright at her unlady like appearance. Not only was Arya dressed more like a boy, but a dirty one. She could already hear the scolding the Septa would try to give and the punishment that would follow. Thankfully, Septa Mordane wasn't here. She had been tasked to going south with Sansa and her Lord Father to the capital.

Here, Arya didn't have to worry about offending her. She was out of the Septa's shadow and that made her happy. No naggings for Arya, she thought happily, she was even enjoying her needlework now under the tutelage of Lady Mormont.

She had written that in her last letters to home one for her Lady Mother in Winterfell and one to her Lord Father at the capital. Arya left out the new motivation behind the task, of Lady Mormont promising to teach her the skill needles could have at sewing up wounds. Arya was still waiting for their responses but she thought her parents would be pleased that she was following the conditions they had laid out to her when they decided that she would foster at Bear Island.

"Arya."

Direwolf and master both turned to see Lyanna approaching them from the main entrance of Mormont Keep. The youngest daughter of the Lady of Bear Island was dressed in dark breeches and a tunic with the Mormont Bear, standing tall and fierce stitched onto the cloth.

"Lyanna," Arya greeted her friend with a smile. It had become routine for them to meet up after Arya's morning tasks for Dacey so that they could practice archery together.

Nymeria's tail moved lazily, eyes on Lyanna. The direwolf accepted the gentle pat on the head from the youngest daughter of Lady Mormont

"Where's Jory?" Arya asked. Lyanna's older sister always accompanied them.

Lyanna Mormont sighed, "In her room."

"Is she not feeling well?" Arya wasn't sure of what other reason there could be that could keep Jorelle away from her bow.

"You could say that," Lyanna answered vaguely, as the two friends made their way to the training yard.

"What do you mean?"

"It's her heart," Lyanna's face scrunched up, "Jory's in love." She crooned the last word.

"In love?" Arya repeated. That didn't make sense. She was betrothed to Cley Cerwyn, Heir to Cerwyn Castle. How was it that she was already in love and to whom?

"Yes, Jory got a letter from her betrothed, Cley." She pronounced the name in a feigning dreamy voice that reminded Arya too well of how Jeyne or Beth would talk about their favorite knights and princes in their beloved stories and songs.

"She stayed up all night fretting about how to respond to his letter," Lyanna rolled her eyes. "Jory hasn't even written two sentences yet!"

Arya picked up her bow with a laugh at her friend's dramatics. She looked to see Nymeria had settled down to her side, lying on the ground, head resting on her stretched out paws as she watched them.

She was surprised that letter writing was keeping Jory from her bow. She was a skilled archer and always seemed to make time to loose a few arrows. Maege Mormont believed her daughter was the best on all of Bear Island.

The night that Lady Mormont announced Jorelle's betrothal to Cley Cerwyn, she said that she had considered not letting her daughter marry any man who could not beat her with a bow before proudly boasting that would've meant Jory would've died an old maid. That had received a loud roar of laughter and shouts of pride and approval.

Jory's behavior reminded Arya unfavorably of Jeyne and Beth. How they would giggle and gossip about their songs and what men they thought was handsome and the dreams they had of their future husbands.

It made Arya roll her eyes.

She then notched an arrow to her bow and in a fluid motion drew back the bowstring and released. Watching her arrow sail through the air before hitting the middle ring, she lowered her bow and admired her shot. It wasn't the center ring, but it was the second smallest ring and that made her proud.

Thinking back Beth and Jeyne, Arya couldn't help wonder how they'd react to see her using archery in plain sight. They'd be scandalized and that was enough to make Arya smile. She knew her Lady Mother would be displeased by her tendency to favor swords and bows to needles and songs, but she still let Arya come here to learn it. And that made Arya love her mother even more.

"At this rate she'll finish the letter when it's time for them to get married!" Lyanna smiled when she added, "Then she'll be able to deliver it to him without need of a raven."

A whistle cut through Arya and Lyanna's conversation followed by a thud where an arrow hit dead center. Both turned behind them to see Jory walking over to them with a not so innocent smile on her face, carrying her bow in one hand. "Miss me, Lya?"

Lyanna tried and failed to look indifferent at her sister's presence. Offering Jory a shrug, she then went back to her bow and letting loose her arrow that didn't come close to where her sister's arrow had hit.

"Mayhaps, I should stay inside my room and write my letters to Lord Cerwyn's son," Jory Mormont came up between Lyanna and Arya, "It might be the only way my sister has of beating me." She laughed at Lyanna's affronted look, but that didn't stop Jory from patting her sister's head.

Lyanna swatted Jory's hand half heartedly while smiling. "I could still beat you with a sword."

"What good is a sword, sister, when you're pricked by a handful of my arrows," Jory countered.

"I'd have a shield," Lyanna grumbled.

"Aye," Jory agreed, "But I'd pepper that with arrows too."

"Such pride in your martial prowess is unbecoming of a newly betrothed lady," Lyanna observed with a sly grin.

Jory shrugged, "We can't change who we are, sister." Quick as a cat, she notched and let loose another arrow that hit close to the center mark. "We're Mormonts," she said proudly.

"Yes, we are." Lyanna agreed quickly and happily.

It wasn't Winterfell, Arya knew. And they were bears, not wolves, she thought reflecting on the Mormont sisters in front of her, but that didn't mean they couldn't be part of her pack.

\-------------------

Red eyes looked down at her from a pale face.

Arya met their gaze without flinching.

It was here that she came to thank her father's gods, her gods when she received Robb's letter. Bran would ride again, she remembered reading the words exultingly. The Imp had created a saddle that would let Bran ride a horse once it was properly trained, Robb had gone on in his explanations, but Arya hadn't cared for how her brother could ride only that he could.

The Godswood of Mormont Keep contained tall pine and timber trees as well as a stream that cut through the sacred ground that led to a waterfall that emptied out into a pond. At the center of the Godswood, standing tall and vigilant was a lone weirwood tree encircled by stone. The face carved into the bone white bark bore a look that resembled wrath, red eyes narrowed to slits, its mouth curling as if preparing to shout some sort of battle cry.

Today, she came to the Godswood for a different reason.

I ran on four legs, Arya couldn't forget her dreams. I sprinted on soft sands, chasing gulls that cawed and flew out of my reach.

The dreams were vivid, coming to her every night, but they were never the same.

Discovering new smells that were carried on the wind, she was able to hear the faintest noises from both up in the trees or in the bushes of squirrels and rabbits, and other game that fled when they caught her scent.

What does it all mean? Arya silently asked the heartwood tree before her. It stared back at her, but gave her only silence.

Still looking at the pale face of the weirwood tree, she couldn't help but wonder if her brothers were at the Godswood in Winterfell. A cold ache filled her belly at the mention of the brothers she missed. Arya wished that she could see through the eyes of the Winterfell weirwood tree just for the hope of a glimpse of Robb, Bran, or Rickon.

The old gods could, Arya remembered, they could see through the eyes of any weirwood tree. If only for a moment I could see them, she prayed. I'd be grateful, she added.

They gave her no answer.

"Where's your wolf?"

Arya looked over her shoulder to see Lady Mormont's second daughter, Alysane Mormont, a short, muscled woman, who was garbed in her armor.

"Nymeria's hunting," Arya answered, and if I was asleep I would be too.

"First direwolf in these parts in a long time," Alysane observed, "the critters in the forest won't know their doom until it's too late." That seemed to amuse her, "But you'd know that wouldn't you, Pup." Her arms were thick and scarred as she crossed them over her chest. "With those dreams you've been having."

Arya turned away so as not to reveal her surprise at how closely her observations hit. How could she know?

"I know what you are."

"What do you mean?" Arya asked.

She didn't answer. She moved closer towards the weirwood tree, so that she was standing in its shadow before she then knelt to the ground, her knees sinking into the soil. "You're a warg."

"No, I'm not," Arya protested quickly and hotly. She backed away from her. "You take that back!" She glanced around the Godswood as if expecting to see stares and hear gasps from a hidden crowd.

She remembered Nan's stories about wargs. They were the villains in her tales. They'd wear the skins of monsters and try to murder the heroes. They were hunted and killed by her ancestors, feared for their sorcery. Like the Warg King who was defeated by an old Stark King in a war for Sea Dragon Point.

Will Old Nan tell stories about me one day? Arya feared, Gather round and I'll tell you the tale of the girl by day, and wolf by night: Arya the Abomination.

That made her tummy hurt.

She couldn't be one. She just couldn't! She was Arya, only Arya, the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark. She wasn't a warg.

Even as she tried to dismiss it, she could feel it taking root, refusing to leave.

"Yes, you are," she affirmed, but she didn't sound scared or bothered it.

I am? Arya didn't know, but she felt nauseous all the same. It seemed to slip past her denials and nestle itself deep within her, confronting her to realize what Alysane said was true. I am, she thought numbly. It explained her dreams and her deep connection with Nymeria, though it was still a bitter drink to taste.

"You're not scared," Arya pointed out. You're supposed to be scared, she wanted to say. They're always scared in the stories.

Alysane laughed at that-loud and hoarse, "Of course not."

"You can't tell anyone," Arya begged her. Fear gripped her like cold hands grasping at her heart as she was forced to think at how others would react if they knew what she was.

Would Harwin still want to lead her pony if he feared she'd warg into it? Or Septa Mordane would she try even harder to try to make her a genteel lady to try to smother her warg abilities or would she cower in fear at what Arya could be?

Her mother would be faint and frightened. Would she think her abomination like her seven gods would see her as? Would Theon or Jeyne make cruel japes about her?

It felt like cold eels were writhing in her tummy.

"There's no shame in it," Alysane consoled her. "It's a gift from the gods." She gestured to the pale face of the weirwood tree that looked down at both of them. Its leaves looked like red hands and when the wind blew through the branches it looked as if they were trying to reach down and grab Arya.

That provided her little comfort.

"Don't worry, Pup. You're not alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the great and wonderful feedback from the last chapter. Glad to see so many people enjoyed it. 
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	30. The Keeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains depictions/hints/mentions of torture, rape, and some other nasty and terrible stuff.

The Dreadfort loomed over him.

A sinister remnant from a bloodier, brutal time built by the Boltons who had called themselves Red Kings and ruled their dominion with sharp blades and savage technique. That was when flayed skins of slain enemies not banners of cloth hung on the ramparts of the Dreadfort.

He walked along a cliff lip. The Weeping Water ran below him, cold, clear water resembling a sword of light cutting its way through a dark canvas. Above him was the Dreadfort. It had high thick walls, colossal towers crowned with merlons that resembled stone teeth from some massive beast. An ominous sight that still made his stomach clench nervously.

He had come this way upon this hidden, high mountain path more times than he could count, but that cold clasp of fear still clung to him every time he walked it. It had been shown to him by Lord Bolton as a way for him to come to the Lord of the Dreadfort without being seen by servants or guards to deliver his reports of his bastard son, Ramsay.

At the end of the path was a cave. Long ago, the people who lived in the shadow of the Dreadfort believed ghosts lived in these lands because they were able to hear the anguish screams and howls of agony that eerily came out of the cave from the prisoners of House Bolton who were flayed for treason, information, or entertainment. Oblivious to the existence of this cave the people feared it to be lingering ghosts and avoided the area.

There as he crested from the pathway he could see it. Looking like a giant maw with rocks jutting up from its lower and upper lips to resemble teeth. Thankfully, the cave was silent this night. There in its mouth, he saw a flicker of light. Carefully, he moved closer towards it.

"Stop," the soft voice spoke up just as he reached the cave's mouth.

"Lord Bolton," he bowed his head.

"What news from my bastard do you bring?"

"His raids have stopped."

"I know," Lord Bolton's voice gave away nothing. "You may rise."

He did, to see Lord Bolton holding a torch, the fire brought a haunting glow to the Lord of the Dreadfort's face, and made his pale eyes look like two pricks of fire.

"Was that your doing?"

"I'm not certain, m'lord." He had learned long ago to always be honest with Lord Bolton. Since he detested feigned humility and foolish pride. "He has become more," he paused to try to find the right word, "cautious."

"He's learning," the lilt in Lord Bolton's voice sounded amused. "He understands how little he is actually protected." The Lord of the Dreadfort began to retreat deeper into the cave.

Robard followed at a respectful distance. A challenge since Lord Bolton's torch was the only light that illuminated the dark passageway that ran underneath the Dreadfort. Multiple corridors and rooms were built deep into the ancestral seat of House Bolton. It was that connection of stone bowels that they found themselves walking in.

He could remember the first time Lord Bolton had showed him these dungeons and cells. He would plainly inform Robard of the rooms' uses when they passed them. Such as this was where past Bolton Lords and Red Kings liked to cut men before they started the flaying. Or that this room was where they preferred to maim the chests and backs of their victims. Or this was where they put nail to flesh to crucify them to their crosses.

The indifference in his voice or the casualness of his tone when speaking of maiming and flaying was bone chilling. They were reminders for him to show him what happened to those who disobeyed, disappointed or rebelled against the Bolton family.

It had ended when Lord Bolton showed him a room and simply said that this would be his room for the remainder of his days if he betrayed him or reneged on their agreement. In the center of the room was a cross and to Robard's horror, a body was nailed to it. Dry blood had pooled around the cross' base, as bits of skin had been peeled off, to show bone and meat. The head was lulled to the side.

Robard nearly heaved at the smell, but then to his silent horror, the body stirred and a low, gruff groan escaped the man. His head shakily rose and Robard met the man's dead, hopeless eyes.

A cold chill seeped into his bones and Robard had heaved onto the floor before he ran out.

"Do you understand me now?" Lord Bolton had asked him calmly when he had joined him a few minutes later further up the corridor.

Robard had nodded, hands shaking, and stomach churning. "I'm your man," he had vowed, "To my last day."

Returning to the present, by banishing those memories away. He then remembered something Lord Bolton had said earlier about Ramsay's protection. "Lord Bolton?"

"I had made certain that word reached Ramsay's mother of what would happen to her and her boy if he continued with these games."

Ramsay won't like that, Robard knew the bastard well enough to know that Ramsay didn't like being chided. He didn't like being told no. He would be sullen for a time but that would turn to spite.

No more threats. Ramsay was not worthy of the protection that Lord Bolton insisted on giving him. He was a menace to the land, a monster in human skin. He didn't need to be disciplined. He needed to be put down.

"Tell me," Lord Bolton's soft voice broke through his thoughts. "What is it that he's doing?"

"He's planning something," Robard scratched the dark stubble along his cheeks. "He no longer raids, but he sends out riders."

"Riders?" Lord Bolton looked curious, "Where?"

"I do not know, m'lord." It had been frustrating to see them ride off. When they returned days later they would tell him nothing. They only spoke to Ramsay, and Robard couldn't get any information subtly out of him either. He dared not press knowing how volatile and suspicious the bastard is.

"He's up to something, m'lord," Robard could feel it in his gut.

Despite the bastard's cruelty, he possessed some low cunning. Ramsay wasn't alone in these schemes either. Reek was with him too. He stunk with secrets and plots that bothered Robard more than the awful smell that gave Reek his name.

"Probably another girl for him to hunt and rape," Lord Bolton suggested, who didn't sound bothered by these reports.

No, it isn't. Their hunts weren't this well planned. This was something else. The bastard was being too secretive.

"You disagree."

He looked up to see Lord Bolton's pale eyes on him. It was as if they could see through the darkness to notice the frown that had come to Robard's lips. "You are the Master and I'm the servant, m'lord."

"You think he should be killed?" Lord Bolton asked him, "that I should end this farce?"

"I do, m'lord," Robard had made his argument before. Why watch him when it was better to put a dagger in his heart and be done with it.

"You don't understand why I keep him alive."

"I do not, m'lord."

"Tell me how many true born sons does Lord Stark have?"

Robard frowned at the sudden question. It took him a few moments to remember, "Three."

Lord Bolton nodded, "To most that would appease any parent. How could a father not be proud when he's given three sons? But only a fool is content. You look closer and you see that the Stark line isn't as secure as you'd believe at first glimpse." A gleam was in his pale eyes, "They have three sons: a cripple, a boy, and a young man."

"The cripple cannot extend the family line. The boy can easily die from a cough or sickness when winter truly is upon us."

"What about the heir?" Robard could concede Lord Bolton's other points, but the heir to Winterfell was a young man who was betrothed to a Princess and was expected to be wed within the next year or so. Surely, that marriage would breed heirs soon after.

They turned a corner and into a corridor that was already lit with torches. The sudden brightness caused Robard to shield his eyes with his hand since he had grown use to the dark. He blinked a few times to adjust, before seeing how the torches were grasped by skeletal hands that poked out of the wall. He had grown use to the pale, bone hands. Knowing that they belonged to past servants of House Bolton even in death they continued to serve their master.

He wondered if Lord Bolton would have his hands put to the walls when his time passed. Will my bones hold the light for future lords of the Dreadfort?

"History is filled with young, foolish men who were heirs to great houses with delusions of grandeur and the sense of immortality," Lord Bolton said disdainfully, "They perished never to extend their family line or achieve the glory they longed for, dying in battles and tournaments to belly aches and other sicknesses."

"So that's what protects Ramsay?" Robard bit back the frustration that threatened to slip into his tone. He didn't like the idea that monster was protected because Lord Bolton saw the bastard as his spare in keeping the Bolton line going.  
The bastard was dangerous and no amount of Bolton blood should shield him from the death that he deserves.

"Yes," Lord Bolton said simply. "I will not become the bane of my bloodline. To be cursed as the last Bolton before our name leaves the living only to linger on the pages of some dusty, old history tome."

"To just think of some Stark supporter to be given to the Dreadfort," Lord Bolton's tone was calm, but there was no denying his distaste at the idea. "I will not have it. The Boltons are the oldest and most dangerous rival to House Stark's dominance of the north."

"So do not think me hesitant. I am merely patient," his fingers went to the flayed man clasped on his collar. "I wait until my line is secured and furthered before I make my move. I have planned this for years to finally secure this claim."

This was the first time Robard had heard of any of this. Fool, a voice whispered. Why would a great lord deign himself to consult with someone like you.

"A claim?" Robard didn't understand, "A claim for what?"

"Winterfell," Lord Bolton's lips curved upwards to form a sharp smile. "When my heir, Domeric marries the Lady Sansa and does his duty and produces children. They will have a claim to the ancestral seat of the Starks. That is my legacy. "

\-----------------------------

Robard stood stiffly. He forced his eyes not to look across to see the bustling bushes that were concealing Ramsay and his conquest.

He looked to see Damon was leaning against a tree and looking bored. Reek was closest to the bushes, a look of longing on his face. His hands were clasped in front of him, but his fingers were fidgeting while his eyes were transfixed on the bushes.

It was fear that kept him from doing anything, but not of Ramsay's wrath but of his father's. Robard knew what would happen if he disobeyed Lord Bolton. He often dreamed of that room. Of waking up to find himself, nailed to that cross. In the dark pit of the Dreadfort as Lord Bolton would be his only visitor. And with each visit came a piece of skin.

The bushes eventually stilled.

Now his mercy, Robard wanted to spit the words, as he heard the dagger withdraw from its sheath and the quick slash of blade cutting flesh and then nothing. He looked over his shoulder to see Ramsay emerging from the bushes.

A smile played on his lips, there was a sheen of sweat on them as well as the rest of his face. "She's all yours, Reek," Ramsay gave him a pat on the back when he passed. "Still warm, just how you like 'em." Ramsay was tying up the laces of his breeches.

Reek scurried off. Disappearing behind the bushes, grunts soon followed.

He turned away from the bushes, not wanting to think about what Reek was doing to that poor girl's corpse.

She was frightened, bruised, and bloodied when they came upon her. She hadn't been alone either. Grunt was holding her forcefully, his strong grip on her arm at an angle which Robard feared would snap bone with one tug. Yellow Dick was with them too, a pleased look on his face. He had said that she was unspoiled and a gift from Locke.

Who's Locke? Robard wanted to ask, but he didn't. He couldn't even frown at the name. He had kept his face blank, but his ears and eyes were attentive and alert in case anything new let slip that he could report back to Lord Bolton, but he got nothing and instead had to witness the sick games the bastard liked to play with his victims.

She's not the first girl, he thought sadly. He couldn't count how many boys and girls he had seen Ramsay and the others rape and kill during his service of the bastard. They died because of the bastard's blood. It protected him.

Robard clenched his fists in frustration at that bitter truth. Lord Bolton's words stayed with him. As was the indifference in which the Lord of the Dreadfort used to speak them. What's the concern of a few low born girls in comparison to insuring the Bolton line?

So Ramsay got to play his games and they all suffered for it.

Now he plots and schemes with Reek, Yellow Dick, and Grunt. Robard knew Lord Bolton disregarded what he had to say. Mayhaps, he was right. After all, the corpse behind the bushes proved the lord right that the only plans his bastard had made was for another one of his hunts.

No, there's more, Robard stubbornly thought, this Locke was a part of it too.

Ramsay was smoothing out his tunic. He was a bastard, but that didn't stop him from wearing his father's colors. A pale red tunic, crude stitching of a flayed man at its center, dark breeches, a red cape with fox fur trimming, and on his finger he wore a ring, the only evidence of his blood ties to House Bolton and the Dreadfort.

Bold, Robard had thought when he saw Ramsay's choice of clothes. He wore his father's colors, but even he hadn't been brave enough to wear the flayed man. A sigil he had no right to bear.

This was his mother's doing. Robard knew it. She was a deranged woman who had filled Ramsay's head with dangerous notions that the Dreadfort was his, that he was a Bolton in both blood and name. And when she wasn't with him, Reek was there. The creature once a gift from Lord Bolton spoke the words to Ramsay's ears whenever he could. Telling him how he deserved the holdings of the Dreadfort and the title of Lord Bolton not this absent brother who spent his life in Barrowton, the Vale, Winterfell, and now the capital.

He'd need to tell Lord Bolton the next time he saw him. He'd want to know. And maybe then that would be enough proof for the Lord of the Dreadfort to understand that his bastard was too dangerous to be allowed to live.

More reason to remove Ramsay now, but Lord Bolton clearly did not see it. He would not be hasty in his decision. He saw his trueborn son was protected and kept away from his bastard brother. It'd be a further distance between one brothers if Ramsay was put into the ground.

Legacy be damned, Robard cursed. Only nobles would care so much about their name and its preservation to allow men like Ramsay Snow to walk amongst us.

"They're back," Damon announced, pointing off at a pair of riders who were approaching their clearing in the woods.

"Hurry up, Reek." Ramsay called over his shoulder, annoyed. "The girl isn't going anywhere." He chuckled at that. "You can even bring her with us. She won't complain."

Robard spotted them. Grunt and Yellow Dick had both left soon after Ramsay claimed the girl from this Locke. Where they went was information that he hadn't been privy to.

"Reek, now!" Ramsay called out to him.

Robard smelled him before he saw him. Reek moved over to stand to Ramsay's right. The smell was so bad; it made him want to gag. He noticed the front of Reek's clothes were stained in blood from the girl. He was licking his lips hungrily. Reek was holding a few strands of the girl's hair in between his fingers bringing it to his nose to smell.

Yellow Dick dismounted from his horse while Grunt remained on his. A brutal man with a round face, a plain look, with muddy brown hair, but there was a meanness in him that flowed in his blood. He went by the name Grunt because that was the only sound he could make. He had lost his tongue when he had spoken carelessly about Lord Bolton's heir within earshot of the Lord of the Dreadfort. It was for that reason why he sought out Ramsay.

Yellow Dick offered Ramsay a quick bow. A display of respect and a farce that they all must play since Ramsay styled himself a lord when he was nothing but a bastard and a monster. Yellow Dick was squat and ill tempered with a bulbous nose and sharp eyes, stringy blond hair fell over his forehead.

"It's done," Yellow Dick told them.

"Very good," Ramsay clapped his hands once. He turned to Reek. The two seemed to share a silent conversation that left both men smirking.

Robard felt a sinking feeling settling in his gut. This wasn't good, he was trying not to panic. He snuck a glance over at Damon, but his confidant within this group of Bastard Boys looked indifferent at the conversation between Ramsay and Yellow Dick.

We're performers, Robard reminded himself, me and him, we can give nothing away.

"This opportunity won't come again," Reek pointed out.

"No," Ramsay pulled a dagger out from its sheath on his hip. "It will not."

"Do we proceed?" Yellow Dick asked. His tone was cautious, but his eyes betrayed his eagerness.

"Yes," Ramsay pressed the dagger's point to each of his fingers on his left hand.

Yellow Dick looked pleased. He flashed Ramsay a smile before he turned back to Grunt. "What are you waiting for?" He asked his silent riding companion. "Your tongue to grow back? Let's go." He then kicked his horse who neighed and wheeled around before spurring it back in the direction from which they had ridden from.

Grunt's eyes narrowed at the fleeting back of Yellow Dick before he turned back to Ramsay. He nodded to him and without sparing them another look rode off after him.

"Reek," Ramsay turned to his faithful servant, "Tell Sour Alyn to have my horse ready for our return to the mill."

"At once," Reek was grinning, as he shuffled off to where Sour Alyn had taken their horses to a nearby stream.

"Will that be all?" There was nothing he wanted more then to take his horse and ride back to the Dreadfort to inform Lord Bolton of what was happening.

"Tend to the girl, Bitter," Ramsay gestured to the bushes that concealed the corpse. "And then you'll ride back with the rest of us."

Robard smothered the frown at his directions. He could let nothing show. "Do you require protection?" He meant the question to be a jape.

"No," Ramsay's pale eyes regarded him coolly.

It took all of his control not to shudder at the colorless eyes as he imagined the wroth of Lord Bolton if he could not seek him out and to warn him of whatever it is, his bastard was planning.

"But I will require your services," he told him. "At dawn we all ride out from the mill."

"Where?"

"You'll find out," Ramsay told him with a thin lipped smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like always, thanks for the feedback, I really appreciate seeing your comments.
> 
> We'll be going back to King's Landing in the next chapter which I'll try to post tomorrow night, if you guys are interested. It won't be a Jon a chapter, but he has one coming up very soon. 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	31. Domeric

"Can you play another one, please?"

"Of course," Domeric was more than happy to accept her request.

Sansa smiled in response, sitting opposite of him across the small table in her chambers. Her fingers were nimbly working the needles as she continued her embroidery.

Domeric brought his fingers to the strings of his harp to start another song. He had been playing for so long it had become second nature to him.

A skill he was thankful for as it allowed him keep his attention on his beautiful betrothed as his fingers slowly, but deftly began to pull at the strings, letting music come from the harp as light as breath. His fingers lazily trailed across the strings, aware of the pattern in which they needed to be plucked to elicit the melody that filled the room.

Sansa's smile brightened as she recognized the familiar song. Her eyes went from her needlework to him, shimmering with gratitude. She let out a soft hum that wove together effortlessly with the song he continued to play.

While he played, he couldn't help but remember his father's dislike of the idea of him learning the harp. Lord Roose Bolton dismissed the instrument and any importance it might have, not wanting Domeric to grow up as some foolish bard. Maester Uthor had stressed several reasons of why Domeric should learn, but still it was not enough to move his Lord Father.

Mother, in his mind's eye he saw a woman with long braided brown hair, brown eyes that shone with happiness when they saw him, a kind face with a doting smile on her lips.

She had asked Father. She didn't beg, didn't threaten, didn't demand, she had simply asked.

Domeric wasn't foolish enough into thinking his father loved his mother. He had understood that from a young age. He wasn't certain of what if any feelings they held for each other, but there had to be something, because whatever it had been, was enough for the cold, calculating, aloof Roose Bolton to acquiesce to his Lady Wife, Bethany Bolton and allow Domeric, their son to learn to play the harp.

Finishing his trail of thoughts to realize the song was over, Domeric's fingers ceased at the last string, drawing one more long, but soothing note from the harp before he put it down.

"Thank you, Dom," Sansa said sincerely.

Hearing her voice had a way of filling Domeric's chest with warmth, "Anything for you, my love," having meant every word of it.

"I shall remember that," she teased.

Domeric chuckled, "Do you wish to send me to the kitchens for more lemon cakes after supper?" Something he had done on more than one occasion while he was a ward at Winterfell.

"I recall you having one or two of them," She pointed out.

He remembered too, the taste was too sweet, but still he ate them, because it meant spending a few more minutes with her in either of their chambers instead of simply delivering them and leaving. It gave him reason to stay with her, she savoring the treat, him savoring her presence. He then said as much to her and she responded with a dazzling smile that made his stomach flutter.

"Oh Dom," she said warmly, putting down her embroidery, she moved across the table in a few steps and before he could speak, he felt her lips on his. He was quick to respond, relishing the sweet taste of her, a coil of heat tightening in his gut while his hand moved to the back of her head so as to deepen the kiss. She let out a soft moan at that which elicited a comfortable shiver that seemed to crawl up his back.

Pulling apart, he couldn't help but notice the smug smile she was wearing, her eyes had a hazy hue to them, but she looked quite pleased with herself. And he knew why, the reaction she had gotten from him with that surprise and heated kiss had left him dazed which clearly showed on his face.

She spent a few seconds turning her attention on her hair which he had accidentally undone in his move to extend the embrace between them. In that time, her smile disappeared, but her satisfaction didn't seem to. She went back to her seat and picked up her needlework again and acting as if they hadn't just shared a passionate embrace.

I should get lemon cakes more often, he thought with a smile.

\-------------------

That night Domeric found himself escorting Sansa to Lord Renly Baratheon's chambers within the Red Keep where, the two had been invited for dinner. An unexpected invitation from the Lord of Storm's End that had Domeric cautious and curious, knowing that the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands hadn't extended an invite to them out of the kindness of his heart.

A pair of Stark and Bolton guards followed the Hand of the King's daughter and the Dreadfort heir, but it was the direwolf, Lady, that was the most intimidating part of their retinue. Domeric was curious to how the Lord of Storm's End would react to having to host a direwolf as well for his dinner.

He glanced over at Sansa and couldn't help but admire how beautiful she looked tonight for this occasion. Her thick auburn hair shone like copper, falling neatly into curls behind her back while a few tresses of her fiery hair fall over the front of her shoulder. He was pleased to see she was wearing the ruby necklace he had gifted her, the jewels sparkle in the light.

In looking down at the light blue dress she had chosen all Domeric can think was that she looked stunning. She was dressed in blue velvets, the material clung to her, displaying her curves that have distracted Domeric on several occasions. It was richly embroidered around the collar and symmetrical sleeves, featuring pink and pale red, the colors of his house.

Soon to be their house, he reminded himself. He had dressed in freshly polished black boots, black breeches, a leather jerkin dyed pitch black over a red doublet, the flayed man was skillfully stitched onto his jerkin in pale red.

"You look beautiful, my love," Domeric said when Sansa's eyes found his.

She blushed, and smiled, "It is for you."

He gently squeezed her hand which was resting on his arm.

"Only for you," she whispered.

"And I am yours," he replied.

She liked that. A glint in her eyes at his declaration that made his heartbeat seem to grow louder within his chest.

"Jon should be with us," she broke the silence that had fallen on them as they moved closer towards Lord Renly's Chambers within the Red Keep.

"It was his choice, my lady." A choice Domeric could not fault. This was not Winterfell, but the capital, and a bastard wasn't given a seat at the lords' table. Something Domeric didn't agree with as he found Jon a better man of character then any of the lords he had met at court during his time in King's Landing.

His friend's presence within the Red Keep seemed to have stirred some gossip amongst the servants and the nobility. It was whispered the Queen wasn't pleased with Jon's arrival, and feared that if he was allowed to stay her own husband may seek to bring his bastards to court as well.

A shame and an embarrassment that the Queen didn't want to face, it was said. It was enough for Domeric to want to laugh, doubting that any of Robert's bastards could be any more disgraceful then his trueborn son and heir, Joffrey. Now that was someone who should be banned from the Royal Court, he thought.

"Jon has been acting differently since he's talked to Father." Sansa observed.

Domeric knew she was referring to her father finally telling Jon who his mother was. A truth that he seemed to be struggling with as far as Domeric could tell in his limited observations and interactions with his friend. Even with him and Sansa there for Jon, it seemed to have taken some sort of toll on him.

"Can you blame him?"

"No," Sansa admitted, "I just wish he'd talk to us about it." She looked determined when she added, "I don't care who his mother was, servant or noblewoman. He's still my brother."

"And he knows that," Domeric reminded her gently while quietly admiring her strength and loyalty to her family. "He just needs time."

Their conversation ended their as they reached the chambers where Lord Renly was hosting this dinner, a pair of Baratheon guards stood by the doors. They bowed their heads at their approach, while the one on the left, knocked on the door to announce their presence to his liege lord.

The response was immediate as the doors opened. The Bolton and Stark guards took their cue to be dismissed, but the four knew to be close in case they were needed while Lady made no effort to part from them. The direwolf trailed behind Domeric and Sansa into the chambers while all the Baratheon guards could do was look nervously at the creature none of them having the courage to object about the direwolf's presence.

"Lady Sansa," Renly greeted her warmly. Moving aside from the table to approach them where he was quick to place a kiss on the back of her hand.

"Lord Renly," Sansa returned the greeting with a curtsey. "My betrothed and I were honored by the invitation."

"I apologize for not having invited you sooner," Renly confessed before turning to look at Domeric for the first time. The Lord of Storm's End was dressed in a green velvet doublet, with a black trimmed cloak, the Baratheon stag displayed proudly on his chest. His long black hair tied back.

"Lord Domeric."

"Lord Renly," Domeric shook his extended hand. "Thank you for having us."

"It is my pleasure," Renly dismissed their gratefulness with a smile. "I'm just pleased the popular Dread Knight was able to spare us this evening."

Domeric nearly rolled his eyes at the name he had been given, but he restrained his reaction and looked back at Renly with a polite smile.

A faint scoff caught his attention and he turned to see Lord Renly wasn't alone in his chambers, Ser Loras Tyrell was there as well, already sitting, dressed in green and gold with the Tyrell rose prominently stitched onto his doublet.

"Ser Loras," Sansa greeted the surly knight with her unbreakable charm. "This is a wonderful surprise."

"My lady," Loras rose smoothly out of his seat, slipping into the charming knight of flowers persona he so expertly wore at tournaments to please the small folk. He kissed the back of her hand just as Lord Renly had. "You are a vision."

"Thank you, good ser," Sansa took his compliment with a smile. "My betrothed hasn't stopped praising me since we left the Tower of the Hand."

"Even a blind man can see your beauty, my lady," Loras added.

A sudden low growl got the attention of the Knight of Flowers and the Lord of Storm's End. The former looking at the direwolf with indignity while the latter with amusement.

"So you brought your direwolf?" Renly said the obvious, but he smiled at Lady all the same. "Wonderful."

"Castles aren't places for such beasts," Loras mumbled.

"Nonsense," Renly dismissed his friend's perspective. "It cannot often be said that one has hosted a creature straight out of legend for dinner." He then gestured to the table, "Shall we?"

"Yes, please," Sansa answered.

Domeric stepped forward to take Sansa's hand before Loras or Renly could, she smiled at his presence as he escorted her to her spot at the finely carved rectangular table. Lord Renly sat on one end and Loras the other as Domeric took the seat across from her, when he sat down he gave her a smile before looking down at the set of ornate plates, goblets, and silverware that had been put out for them this evening.

These must have cost dragons not coppers, Domeric observed at the plates they were to use this evening. Such waste, he wanted to shake his head in dismay at how vain and frivolous the south was with how they spent their coin. Plates were for food and yet, to these southerners it just seemed another way to flaunt their wealth.

This is going to be a long night.

\--------------------

The laughter of Sansa and Renly filled his ears.

Realizing Lord Renly must have finished his story and gotten to the humorous ending. He allowed himself a small smile as if to reassure his host that he was listening to the story and did find it amusing.

"Did he recover?" Sansa asked once her laughter subsided.

"From the injuries, yes," Renly's laughing blue eyes were sparkling, "But his pride that is a different matter."

Sansa's laughter was musical. Captivated by the sound he turned to her, sitting across from him at the table. Amazed at how lovely and charming she was, and realizing how fortunate he was to one day call her wife.

A swatting tail broke him out of his observations. He looked down to see Lady's tail tapping against his feet. He looked forward to see Sana's hands were not holding her utensils but were out of sight. Judging by the flicking of Lady's tail, he knew what his betrothed was doing. Feeding her beloved direwolf scraps from her plate.

He knew he stood on no high ground to judge since he often fed Lady from his plate during their meals. Between the two of them, he was sure Lady would be as big as a horse in no time.

Sansa sensed his gaze as she turned to meet his smile with an innocent look while her blue eyes shined brightly. The corner of her lips curved at being caught. She sent him a sly wink before turning to the Knight of Flowers.

"Highgarden sounds wonderful, Ser Loras."

Domeric frowned. Highgarden? Before realizing that must have been where Lord Renly's story had taken place.

"It is, my lady," Loras answered proudly, "The most beautiful castle in the Seven Kingdoms."

Domeric wanted to snort at that declaration. Leave it for these southerners to put an emphasis on vanity and appearances when it came to their castles. The Dreadfort was no beauty, but a stalwart, menacing castle that has held its own against besieging armies.

Usually in repelling the Starks, a small voice reminded him. That was a different time, he quickly pointed out, looking back across the table at his beautiful betrothed. We are no longer enemies.

"And that's where the rest of your family is?" Sansa asked, always the soul of courtesy.

"They are," Loras confirmed, "I have two older brothers and a younger sister." A look of fondness came to his face, "My oldest brother, Willas is a wise man, who will rule Highgarden and the Reach with fairness." A wistful smile came to his lips, "and my brother, Garlan is the Warrior himself, best swordsman in all the Reach," his smile looked smug when he added, "Though I am better then him with the lance."

Despite his dislike for the knight, Domeric could tell the Knight of Flowers truly did care about his older brothers. The tone and the way Ser Loras spoke of them, reminded him of how he heard the Starks talk about their siblings with affection and pride. It was good to know that there seemed to be others, this southern knight admired and cared for besides himself.

"And Margaery, my younger sister, she wanted to come to the Tournament of the Hand, but she could not," Loras finished.

"Much to your father's disappointment," Renly observed with a wry grin.

Loras gave an uncomfortable chuckle, "Yes, it was."

"Lord Tyrell has his mind on making Margaery a Queen," Renly clarified, with more than a touch of amusement in his voice. "It's the worst kept secret in much of the south," his laughing blue eyes moved to Sansa, "He was probably very thankful when he heard your father decline my brother's original betrothal offer between yourself and the Crown Prince."

"It was a generous offer," Sansa replied politely, "But my Lord Father was already given one years before and I'm most thankful for it."

"But to dismiss a crown," Loras shook his head in dismay, "That is not something to be taken lightly."

"I've already been crowned, Ser Loras, don't you recall?" Sansa asked innocently enough, but there was a glint in her blue eyes. "The golden roses, it's the only crown I need or want, and it was given to me by the only man I want as my husband."

Renly laughed, "She has you there, Loras." He then raised his glass in Sansa's direction, "Well said, my lady."

Whatever annoyance Domeric had felt bubbling in his gut at Loras' remarks evaporated with Sansa's sincere words.

She then looked over at him with that smile, the one she favored for him, and only him; the one that had the ability to make his heart beat quicker and louder.

"M'lady!" A guard bearing the Stark sigil burst into the chambers unannounced.

He looked disheveled and his face was ashen.

"What's going on?" Lord Renly was taking in the sudden appearance of the guard's arrival.

The guard ignored the Lord of Storm's End and turned directly to Sansa. "Lady Sansa," he bowed his head, "There was an attack in the streets involving your father."

"My father?" Sansa gasped at this startling news.

Domeric pushed himself out of his seat. He moved swiftly around the table to be at Sansa's side. He stood over her seat, putting his hands upon her shoulders. Her hands met his and he squeezed them.

"Who would dare attack a Lord Paramount?" Lord Renly demanded.

The guard's look soured, "The Kingslayer."

"What of my father?" Sansa's voice hitched.

The guard looked down and that movement was telling than any answer could be. "He was injured, m'lady." He looked up to meet their stares, "He has yet to wake."

"I must see him!" Sansa rose from her seat with immaculate grace even during this trying moment.

"I will take you, my love," Domeric held out his arm for her which she took with a thankful look.

"Lord Renly, Ser Loras, thank you for this evening, but you must excuse me," Sansa's poise never faltering.

"Of course, my lady," Lord Renly took her gratitude with a nod, "Let us know if there is anything you or your father needs."

"I thank you, my lord," Sansa bowed her head, but Domeric was certain he saw her blue eyes glistening, he squeezed her hand.

Everything had just changed, he realized.

\------------

"We shall see him soon." Domeric assured Sansa, watching while she paced furiously in front of him.

The two of them were in the Godswood. He was sitting one on of the too many stone benches that infected this wooded area, his harp resting beside him.

"Soon?" Sansa spun to face him, her auburn hair whipping behind her, "We should see him now. He's my father."

Domeric could not fault her for being upset. For six days and seven nights, Lord Stark lay unconscious, struggling and recovering from his wound given to him by the kingslayer while maesters tended to him.

In that time, Sansa Stark's strength shined through for all to see.

She had kept her composure and had put a calming hand to her father's household that had been thrown into disarray from the attack. Sansa had eased into the role of Lady of the household since they arrived in the capital and now that her father was bedridden for the time, she maintained the household to great success and efficiency. While, she wasn't overseeing the household and the day to day management of the Tower of the Hand, Sansa spent her time with her father-She and Jon both.

He could see how much the attack on Lord Stark had shaken Sansa. Her concern had been palpable to him even though she did an admirable job concealing it from the servants of the household as well as the other lords within the court. She had told him how unnerved she had felt at seeing him looking so fragile and ill in his bed the countless times they visited him. Claiming to have always seen him as the strong, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and how unsettling she felt upon seeing him so weak.

Then the news that had come to the three of them, the relief and happiness they all felt when they had been told that Lord Stark was awake. That had quickly turned to frustration when the messenger told them that they would not be able to see Lord Stark until after the King's business with him was finished.

Domeric pitied the servant who had come with the news. The withering stare he had gotten from Sansa and that sharp smile she had given him when she thanked him, had unnerved the poor boy and sent him scurrying out of the room.

Jon hadn't taken the news any better than his sister. He gave a brief and vague excuse before he left them behind. Seeing how Sansa had taken the news, Domeric had believed the Godswood could serve as a soothing balm to her.

It didn't work.

"Your father is a valued friend of the king," Domeric pointed out. It was a weak defense to his ears, as the King had done nothing in punishing the man who had attacked Lord Stark.

Judging by the stern stare, Domeric found himself the center of, it seemed Sansa too didn't find his argument to be very good. She silently went about pacing through the Godswood, but even in her annoyance, she looked elegant in her movements.

Knowing, he could say nothing at the moment to cool her temper, he picked up his harp and carefully stroked the strings, drawing out a series of soothing notes that proceeded to linger around them.

He looked up to see the grateful smile Sansa flashed him.

"What is this?"

Domeric's eyes snapped to his left to see the Crown Prince sauntering towards them, followed closely by a handful of Lannister guards, his sworn shield, The Hound, and Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard.

"What a surprise, my prince," Sansa recovered first, dipping into a polished curtsey.

Domeric followed her example, offering the insufferable Prince a brief bow. He then placed his harp on the bench and moved to stand beside his betrothed. While silently berating himself for not having any of his guards with him, neither did they have Lady, the direwolves had grown restless and aggressive in the days following the attack on Lord Stark. Sansa had wisely instructed that Lady and Ghost be kept in their chambers for the foreseeable future.

"Hardly a surprise, my lady," Joffrey turned his attention towards her, giving her a grin that he thought made him look handsome and regal, but it really only made him look like a pompous arse.

"I heard this music," His green eyes moved to Domeric. "And here I was expecting a woman to be playing it but here you are."

The Lannister guards who had come with the Prince chuckled amongst themselves at his insult.

Domeric looked back at the Prince careful to keep his expression stoic. He would show him nothing.

"The Dread Knight they call you?" Joffrey scoffed, "You're not intimidating as the stupid peasants would have you believe."

"Then why do you bring so many men to speak with me?" Domeric asked quietly.

The Prince flushed at that. "You think I'm afraid of some northern savage like you?" Joffrey mocked, trying to regain his bravado. "I've seen you train with that bastard and lose."

"Jon is a good swordsman," Domeric replied calmly. "I find no shame in losing to a talented opponent."

"A bastard?" Joffrey said in dismay. "Is that the best the north has? Unwashed bastards?"

The guffaws grew louder from his guardsman; Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard had joined them, but not the Hound. The intimidating Sandor Clegane didn't look amused, glowering, his dark hair covering parts of his face to try to hide the hideous burns.

"No wonder Lord Stark went down like a frightened maid when forced to fight a skilled warrior like my uncle," Joffrey boasted. "That's what happens when a wolf tries to fight a lion."

From the corner of his eye, Domeric saw Sansa tense at the insult the Prince casually threw at her father, but she let nothing slip past her carefully crafted visage.

"Look at him," Joffrey was staring at Domeric. "I insult your home and your liege lord and you do nothing."

"Craven," mumbled one of the Lannister guards, and they were nodding and murmuring their agreement.

"And this is our champion in the tourney?" He then withdrew a glittering longsword from his sheath, it gleamed in the sunlight, blue steel, double edged, with a lion's head pommel. "This is Lion's Tooth," he declared proudly.

Domeric heard Sansa's gasp from beside him when the Prince had withdrew the longsword, and had felt Sansa's grip on his hand tighten. "I am unarmed."

"Pathetic," he lowered his sword. "I'm going to do you a courtesy." Joffrey moved passed him, Lion's Tooth in his hand. He stopped in front of the bench Domeric had been sitting on, and raised the sword over his head.

Joffrey brought the sword in downward, clumsy arcs, the sound of metal slashing through wood and hitting stone as Lion's Tooth made short of work of Domeric' harp. All the while, Joffrey was laughing.

Domeric didn't dare to react. He wouldn't give Joffrey the satisfaction. He had no recourse he could give at that moment. So he watched silently and did nothing.

The Prince let out a tired breath, stepping aside to show Domeric's harp was nothing but kindling and broken strings. The carved horse head on the harp had been mutilated. It had been a gift from his Aunt, and now it was nothing.

"You should be thanking me for this kindness." Joffrey sheathed the sword.

Before Domeric had a chance to respond to the Prince's bullying, a new voice joined them.

"Lord Domeric, Lady Sansa,"it was Ser Barristan Selmy leading more than a handful of Baratheon men-at-arms into the Godswood. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard turned to Joffrey, "My Prince," inclining his head towards him before he turned back to them.

"I've been sent by the King," he informed them. "I'm to escort you to your father," he said, a small smile at his lips, "He's very anxious to see you."

"My Father," Sansa's relief was palpable at hearing that she could finally see him. "Thank you, Ser Barristan."

"My lady," he bowed his head

"Then let us not keep Lord Stark waiting."

\-----------------

"Father," Sansa was unable to keep the happiness out of her voice or the relief off her face as she went to her father's side.

Lord Stark welcomed them into his room with a worn smile. His grey eyes on his daughter, slowly, and with some pain he moved his arms so that he could welcome the shaky embrace of his daughter.

Domeric put aside the recent confrontation with the prince and his broken harp. Standing silently at the foot of the bed, watching the scene unfold between father and daughter. Ser Barristan had sent Stark men to find Jon and to bring him here as well.

"I'm fine, Sansa," he tried to assure his eldest daughter while still holding her close to him.

"I know now," she sniffed, slowly pulling back so that she could meet her father's eyes. "I never stopped praying."

"And I'm thankful," his hand was brushing some of her hair out of her face. His grey eyes looked over her shoulder and for the first time he noticed him.

He immediately straightened up. Domeric then bowed his head, "Lord Stark."

"Domeric," Lord Stark responded kindly. "I was told the two of you were instrumental in running the household while I was unconscious. I am proud of you."

"How are you feeling, Father?" It was clear at that moment it wasn't her father's appreciation she wanted, but his reassurances that he was well.

"It'll be some time before I can walk without a limp," he admitted with a sigh.

"What does the king intend on doing with the kingslayer?" Domeric asked respectfully.

Lord Stark grimaced. "His Grace has decided to go on a hunt."

"What?" Domeric couldn't believe it.

"I have been reappointed as Hand of the King," Lord Stark continued, "It will fall on me to continue to run the kingdoms while the king is away."

"And of the Lannisters and Tullys?" Domeric had heard disturbing reports circulating in the capital about the bloody skirmishes that were happening throughout the Riverlands. It was rumored to be under the orders of Lord Tywin Lannister.

"Justice will be had in the Riverlands," Lord Stark told him firmly.

Domeric was thankful that someone in the capital was doing their duty and responsibility in upholding the laws of the realm.

"But that is not why I summoned you," Lord Stark looked at them, "the capital is no longer safe."

Was it ever? Domeric wanted to reply, not having to think about their recent encounter with the Prince and how helpless they truly were here. A feeling he didn't want to have again especially when Sansa's protection was his responsibility.

He had failed her then. I will not again.

"Father?" Sansa sent him a questioning look.

"You are to leave." Lord Stark looked between them, "All of you, Jon, as well."

"Not without you," Sansa sounded insulted at the suggestion of leaving without him.

"No, child," A sad look crossed over his features, "I must remain here."

"When would you have us leave?" Domeric asked.

"Dom," a look of hurt marred Sansa's pretty face, while her blue eyes shimmered in disbelief at his intentions to leave the city without Lord Stark.

He couldn't help but squirm where he stood. He had never seen her look so hurt and for him to be the cause of it; a strum of guilt went through him so intense he had to fight the urge to shudder.

"Sansa," Lord Stark's soft voice drew his daughter's attention back to him. "You must leave. It's not safe for you here, my child."

"And what about you, Father?" Sansa pointed to his bandaged leg.

"I'd suffer a lot worse if it meant you and the others were safe," Lord Stark declared firmly. His grey eyes were solemn, his face stoic.

"Father, you can't," She moved to wipe the corner of her eyes.

"I won't be able to settle matters here if I'm worried about your safety." Lord Stark took her in his arms.

"But you'll be alone," she protested feebly, unwilling to surrender to the idea that she had to leave him behind.

"No, he won't be," Jon was standing in the doorway. "I'm staying with him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the great and wonderful feedback. It is very much appreciated. I'm glad and humbled to see so many people enjoying this story. 
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	32. Jon

'Promise me, Jon.'

'I promise.'

"Jon?"

He blinked. No longer was he on the shores of the Blackwater, but looking across the table to see Domeric Bolton was sending him a concerned look.

"Are you alright, Jon?" The heir to the Dreadfort asked.

"I'm fine." A lie was easier than the truth.

A truth he was still wrestling with. Even in his sleep his mind didn't rest, plaguing him with dreams of dragons and wolves. Fighting and clawing at one another within the depths of the tombs of Winterfell with the stone statues of Stark Kings looming over them silently watching.

The dreams always ended the same with the dragon breathing a pillar of flames but it never consumed the snow colored wolf. It was always directed at Jon. The last thing he'd see would be the bright orange flames coming towards him, the heat licking his face before he'd wake up in his room in a cold sweat.

It was a jape by the gods, he thought bitterly, to answer his boyhood prayers in such a twisted and cruel way. It was almost enough for him to laugh resentfully at the truth they bestowed upon him. The answers he coveted as a child to a simple question had spawned and spiraled to form a tangled mess that left him confused and frustrated at having everything he thought he knew to be so wrong.

To Jon that was what hurt the most.

"Very well," Domeric's dark eyes lingered on Jon's face, but he didn't challenge him on his answer.

It had mostly been a somber and quiet meal in the dining chambers within the Tower of the Hand between the three of them. Domeric and Sansa were leaving the city in the morning. A choice that had wrought division between the betrothed couple.

Jon looked over to his sister. Cousin, a small voice needled within his mind, correcting him. He hid the frown that nearly formed at a reminder that he didn't need at this moment.

Sansa even when sullen was an exemplary proper noblewoman. She sat straight with perfect posture, using her utensils and manners in equal parts as she went about her food. She ate quietly, smiled or talked when prompted. In those moments her bright blue eyes could conceal her disapproval of Domeric's insistence on leaving the capital.

If Jon didn't know her, he'd think nothing would be wrong, but he grew up with her. Jon had seen that slight barely noticeable pouting of lips often on the face of Arya when she was upset. It struck him in that moment just how similar Sansa and Arya could look and act despite their obvious differences in appearance and demeanor.

Arya, he felt a pang in his chest at his youngest sister who he adored and missed so much.

Cousin, the voice in his mind grew louder and more stubborn in its insistence in correcting him.

"The Princess came to see me today."

"What did she want?" Domeric asked mildly.

"She invited me to join her for needlework tomorrow afternoon."

Domeric tensed in his seat. "And what did you say?"

"I said yes."

His mouth began to form a frown, "Sansa," he sounded weary.

"A ruse," she assured him.

"That was clever," he admitted, a hint of approval in an otherwise tired tone.

"It was necessary," Sansa said softly.

"It was," Domeric agreed.

"Lord Domeric?"

All heads turned to see a Bolton man at arms enter the chambers where he was quick to bow before approaching Domeric, "Captain Rylen seeks an audience, m'lord."

"Very well," Domeric sighed, "Tell him I'll see to him presently in my chambers."

"Very good, m'lord."

Domeric stood from his seat. He moved towards Sansa's direction as if to give her a parting kiss or embrace, but hesitance stopped him in mid step. Awkwardly he stood for a heartbeat before the decision was made and he decided against it. He cleared his throat, "Forgive the intrusion," he apologized, "Please, enjoy the rest of your meal."

"We will," Sansa replied cordially.

He gave her a tight nod before stepping out of the room.

Sansa's eyes lingered on the closed door for a few passing seconds. A look flickered across her face: forlorn, regret; Jon wasn't sure because it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Sansa's expression steeled into resolve and she moved her attention back to her food where she began to eat quietly.

A crevice had formed between them, Jon observed sadly.

Lady whined.

Besides the briefest of winces, Sansa pretended as if she hadn't heard the noise.

It seemed he wasn't the only one to notice, Jon thought with a small smile. Not that he was surprised, he knew how observant their direwolves were. And how attuned these legendary creatures appeared to be with their masters. Jon had learned that from his time with Ghost and his experiences along the way to the capital.

Sansa could lie to herself, but she could not lie to Lady. She could hide this disagreement from all the capital, but not from her heart or her direwolf.

Lady moved towards the closed door, pawing at it, while whining softly.

"Lady," Sansa said in a stern tone, "To me."

The direwolf stopped and turned to her, inquisitive amber eyes that shone intelligence, cocking her head at her mistress before coming to her, but not before letting out one last softer whine in defeat.

"Good Lady," Sansa rewarded her submission with a piece of bacon that the direwolf took with only some hesitance as if in a final form of protest.

"We should be staying here."

Jon was taken aback by the abruptness of her words. Looking to see her eyes sparkled with certainty, her expression determined. He could tell this had been on her mind for some time and was certain that she had had this conversation with Domeric and her father.

"You and Domeric will be happier at Winterfell," he reminded her, and safer in the home of wolves then this snake pit.

"Happy?" She sounded insulted. "How can I be happy when my father and brother are stuck here in the capital?" She challenged, "When you are surrounded by schemes and threats."

Jon had no quick answer for that and Sansa pounced on his silence.

"We should leave together or not at all," she implored. "You must tell father this."

Uncle, the voiced pricked at his thoughts, rankling at his memories. He's not your father. He's your uncle.

This internal conflict would not leave him not even for a second so that he could talk to his sister.

Cousin.

Jon ground his teeth in frustration trying to thwart the shout that wanted to slip past his lips. He smothered his annoyance so that he could speak to Sansa to try to make her understand.

"I will not go against him on this," He saw the disappointment flicker in her eyes, before it diminished to form contempt.

"Sansa," he moved his hand across the table to get her attention and to try to shatter the disapproval that was showing in her expression. "I will not lie to you, we are in danger."

"That's why we should stay," she argued.

"No," he shook his head, "You can be used to manipulate our father and the north far more than me. You are his trueborn daughter and a Stark of Winterfell."

"I'm not a Stark," he admitted softly.

"You are to me!" Sansa insisted. "You're my brother."

Cousin, the word slithered in his mind like an insidious serpent.

He forced himself to smile even with the internal turmoil churning in his gut. He was touched by her sincerity and ferocity by including him and considering him her brother.

"I'm a bastard," he said bluntly. I remain a bastard, he corrected bitterly.

A cruel twist of truth that remained when he was told about his birth, instead of being the son of Lord Stark; he was the son of a married Prince who had a wife and a family.

"The capital is filled with them," he pushed on, "And will hardly care for one more."

\--------------

Who was he?

A question that was bothering Jon ever since he was told the truth. Who was Rhaegar Targaryen?

The gallant prince, a curse on the king's lips, the bane of a dynasty that united and ruled Westeros for centuries.

The thought of being descended from them was overwhelming. He had grown up hearing stories about the Mad King, the last Targaryen king to sit upon the Iron Throne. Jon remembered Maester Luwin's lessons with Robb about the Rebellion that formed to overthrow the Targaryens. He and Robb when they played their games were always the rebels, fighting for a just cause in trying to rid Westeros of the Mad King.

King Aerys the second, his grandfather, acknowledging that made Jon's stomach twist violently, had killed his other grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

I'm one of them, he thought numbly. I'm the enemy.

Jon pushed that thought aside. Looking around hoping for a distraction and noticed that his walk through the Godswood had led him to the heart tree; a destination he believed was no coincidence.

There were others already gathered around the heart tree. It was easy to identify them in their leather jerkins with the flayed man stitched on it. There were a handful of them, armed and grim. They had spread out to form a protective circle around the son of their liege lord, and heir to the Dreadfort, Domeric Bolton, who was kneeling before the heart tree.

One of the guards spotted him, "Lord Snow," a title born more out of respect for his father then to mock his birth.

"I didn't mean to intrude." Jon apologized.

"Jon?" Domeric turned to him, a smile came to his face. "This is no intrusion." He assured him. "The old gods are for all men." He made a gesture with his hand and two of his guards stepped aside to allow Jon to approach.

Domeric returned his attention to the heart tree. "It isn't the same."

"Aye," Jon moved to stand beside Domeric, he too was disappointed that there was no weirwood tree within the Godswood of the capital. He understood why there was little presence of the sacred trees south of the neck, remembering his lessons with Maester Luwin on the wars between The First Men and the Children of the Forest and then later with the arrival of the Andals.

He missed the solemn gaze of the red eyes of the heart tree in Winterfell's Godswood. The feeling of peace nestled within him at knowing that the old gods could see him and hear his prayers. He found himself needing them now more than ever and feared that they had no power to help or ears to hear of his struggle with the truth.

Ghost had followed Jon over, the white direwolf approached Domeric who on his knees could look Ghost in the eyes. He showed no fear nor did his men tense at the direwolf's presence. Domeric smiled, and lifted his hand slowly which Ghost sniffed before licking his fingers which made his smile widen, then the direwolf tried to lick Domeric's face which he deftly avoided while chuckling.

"To me," Jon chuckled. Ghost obeyed instantly withdrawing from Domeric and moved to sit on Jon's other side.

"I miss the cold," Domeric confessed wistfully.

"Only with the cold can you appreciate the warmth of the fire in your hearth," Jon recited. Remembering the words effortlessly that his Father-

Uncle, the voice persisted. He nearly cringed at the intrusion.

Used to tell them when they were younger, finishing his thought with more of a frown then the initial smile that had wanted to come to his lips as he recalled the memories of the lessons first besides Robb, and Sansa, and then Arya followed by Bran and Rickon.

Now this newfound truth seemed determine to spread its tendrils across his thoughts and memories in an attempt to try to unravel everything he thought he knew and everything he believed he was.

I never should have asked, he realized. I was better off not knowing.

It was easier and better believing my father was Lord Stark. That meant Robb was his brother, he had sisters in Arya and Sansa and younger brothers with Bran and Rickon. Now, he felt like all that had been taken away from him.

His true siblings were dead, a cold voice said in the back of his mind. His half brother and sister, Aegon and Rhaenys, were killed during the Sacking of King's Landing by the Lannister forces.

Their-Our father was dead, killed at the Trident by Robert Baratheon. Their mother, Princess Elia died at the hands of Lord Lannister's toadies. His mother, Lord Stark's sister, Lyanna died in Dorne away from her family and the north.

My family are ghosts.

In that moment of realization, Jon Snow just wanted to forget everything he was told.

"Jon?"

"Yes?" His voice sounded distant.

"Are you well?"

"Yes," Lies, that's all he could speak now.

"What of you?" Jon wanted to desperately change the topic. Remembering how Domeric had to leave during their meal together to speak with the Captain of his Guards.

"Very well," Domeric stayed kneeling. "I was informed that my men have reached Duskendale."

"Duskendale?"

"Yes," Domeric confirmed, "My men are seeking to buy passage on a ship on my behalf." His eyes met Jon's, and there was a glint in those dark eyes. "A ruse you see," Domeric pointed out, "All of the attention from the court's spies will be transfixed on Duskendale believing that is how we will leave."

"That ploy will believe they have time to stop our efforts at leaving from Duskendale. Not expecting the swift exit we will make when we leave in the morning." He said, "It's all been arranged."

"Clever," Jon couldn't fight the amused smile that came to his lips at seeing how his friend had potentially outmaneuvered the spies at court.

"Yes, it is," Domeric agreed, but there was no pride or amusement in his tone. "These are precautions that need to be put in place to safeguard us from those that would use us or do us harm."

Jon knew his friend was right in wanting to be prepared in this snake pit.

"She's mad at me." Domeric said suddenly, more than a trace of sadness tinged his voice.

"She's frustrated with this situation," Jon corrected delicately.

That brought a faint chuckle out of Dom. "The trip is long from the capital to White Harbor hopefully she can forgive me and understand." He turned to look at Jon briefly. "I'll accept her anger if it means she's safe. That means so much more to me."

"She'll understand," Jon said, "Once you're all back in Winterfell she'll see the wisdom in the decision to leave."

"I will not be staying in Winterfell."

"What do you mean?" This was the first Jon was hearing of this.

"I will escort her to Winterfell but then I must leave for the Dreadfort," he clarified, "It is time I returned home and gotten to know the lands and the people that I will one day rule. And learn from my father what it means to be Lord of the Dreadfort."

He moved to stand up. "I pray for strength and guidance." Domeric moved towards the heart tree. "I mean to find my brother." He looked down at his hands which were clasped in front of him. "I will bring him to the Dreadfort with me. I'll find a place for him. He is my blood."

"He will appreciate that kindness," Jon was aware of his friend's intentions of meeting his bastard brother and to get to know him and to make him a part of his life.

"I'll face my father's anger if it means I can have my brother with me at the Dreadfort."

\-----------------

"They are safe."

"That is good news." Relief washed over Jon. He had been waiting anxiously all day to hear if Domeric and Sansa had left the city without being caught or delayed.

"It is," Lord Stark confirmed. "They had no bearings to stop them, but I feared the Queen would try some excuse to keep them close." His mouth twisted in disgust at what he was hinting at.

Jon found himself standing in his uncle's solar, a new name for the man who he called father all his life. The word didn't come easily to his mouth going against his instincts and everything he always thought he knew.

"Now," His uncle's voice broke through from his reflection, "it is your turn."

"My turn?"

"Yes," he said, "For you to leave."

"I'm not leaving!" Jon protested hotly.

Lord Stark took his indignation without reaction. "You forget yourself, Jon."

Jon flinched, "I can't leave you."

"Yes, you can," Lord Stark's face softened, "You do not have a choice on this matter."

"You'll be alone," Jon argued.

"I have men to protect me," His uncle reminded him.

"Not enough."

"Your presence won't tip the scales, Jon."

"I can help."

"You will," his uncle's grey eyes were on him, "By leaving."

I thought I inherited those eyes from you, Jon thought sadly. He had always been silently pleased and proud that he had looked so much like him, that he had inherited his father's look. An empty boast now, he thought bitterly.

Jon opened his mouth to further argue, but he saw the cold look in his uncle's eyes, the challenging stare and clenched jaw, and quickly knew this was an argument he could not win.

"How?" He found himself asking, and a small part of him hated for having to concede to his uncle's plan which meant abandoning him in the capital.

If his uncle look pleased that he dropped the argument, he did not show it. "Do you recall Lord Beric Dondarrion?"

"Aye," Jon nodded his head slowly, the Stormlord was on everyone's tongue now that he had been appointed the leader of an expedition by his uncle to ride to the Riverlands and arrest the Mountain. They were setting out in the morning….

"His squire, Edric Dayne had to leave the capital immediately," his uncle revealed, "He has been recalled to Starfall to serve as its rightful lord."

"So I am to serve as Lord Beric's squire?"

"Yes, and no."

That confusing answer only caused Jon to frown.

"I would not send you out of this snake pit only to lead you directly into conflict with the Mountain."

Before Jon could press his uncle for further details about this plan, Steward Poole's voice came through the closed door, "Lord Stark, Lord Dondarrion, is here to see you."

"Send him in."

The door opened, Jon turned in his stance to see the man who would be taking him out of the city.

He was dressed in black breeches, a black doublet that had a fork of purple lightning stabbing across the cloth with white stars peppered throughout. He had red almost gold colored hair and a handsome face, with bright eyes that swept around the room before stopping on Jon.

"Lord Beric," His uncle got up from his seat to greet him. "Thank you for seeing me again on such short notice."

"It is an honor to be summoned by the Hand of the King," Lord Beric shook his hand, before returning his attention to Jon. "Is this him?"

"Lord Beric," Lord Stark said, "This is my son, Jon."

Nephew.

"I'm honored, my lord." Jon bowed his head but he had been around enough nobles to know those words were probably insignificant, "I'm thankful for this opportunity, my lord. I will not fail you."

"He'll do."

"You have my thanks, Lord Beric," His Uncle said swiftly, "But the Queen-"

"I don't serve lions, Lord Stark," Beric interjected. "I've sworn oaths to Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm's End, and to His Grace, Robert Baratheon, the King of Westeros," he finished with a smile. "I don't recall making any such oaths to lions."

"House Baratheon should be honored to have such dutiful and loyal bannermen."

The Stormlord bowed his head, "Everything has been arranged, my lord." He then turned his gaze back towards Jon. "You are expected to be at the stables before dawn. Your father will inform you of the duties I expect from you."

"He'll be there."

"Good," Beric nodded, and then left the solar without another word or glance in Jon's direction.

"You must trust me on this, Jon."

"I understand," Jon knew he said the right thing when he saw relief flicker in his uncle's eyes.

"I cannot complete my duty here until I know my children are safe."

I'm not your son, but Jon found the strength to ignore that voice. Instead, he pushed down the truth and remembered all those memories of the man before him and how he had raised him, meeting those grey eyes with his own.

"I won't let you down, Father."

\-------------

It was an impressive sight before him, but Jon found himself too tired to be enthralled by it.

There in the yard, were dozens of armored men on horses, their armor glistening in the sunlight while the banners danced and swayed in the wind. Three banners stood proudly, and in front of the expedition force, first was the crowned stag of the king flying from the highest staff, then the direwolf of Lord Stark and House Dondarrion's forked purple lightning on shorter poles.

He had been up more than an hour before dawn. As the new acting squire for Lord Beric, he had to prepare the lord's horse and see to his weapons and supplies and to make sure everything was arranged and packed for their expedition into the Riverlands.

Jon had a brief, and quiet meal with his uncle before they departed, since Jon had to resume his duties as squire to Lord Beric.

It is only for a little while, his uncle had promised. Soon we'll all be back at Winterfell and celebrating the marriage between Domeric and Sansa.

Jon had smiled at that and hoped with all his strength that his uncle's words were true. His uncle had informed him of the plan that he and Lord Beric devised and would follow once they were safely out of the city and the reach of the Queen.

It should work, Jon thought, but yet even with its certain success, Jon couldn't ignore the sense of disappointment and regret he felt stew in his gut at having to leave.

"You're Lord Dondarrion's new squire?"

An accented voice broke Jon from his thoughts to see a man dressed in red robes approaching upon his horse which didn't look as garish or impressive as some of the other men in Lord Beric's retinue. The man was fat; with a bald head, and brown whiskers that covered his cheeks and chin.

"I am, my lord," Jon answered, adding the my lord, even though he was certain this man was no lord.

"Thoros of Myr, at your service," he greeted him, bowing his head with a smile as he gave his introduction. "And I'm no lord. I'm not even Westerosi." His accented voice signaled the truth in his statement.

"Jon Snow," He inclined his head towards the man, the man's name sounded familiar having recalled hearing stories about Thoros of Myr and his flaming sword. Looking at it now to see it was sheathed with no hint of it combusting into flames.

"I saw your face in the flames, Jon Snow," Thoros told him solemnly.

At a loss of words by the man's sudden statement and serious tone, Jon fumbled for a response, but before he could articulate one, it died in his throat when a snort of amusement came out of Thoros' nose with laughter following behind, and just like that the solemn expression that he once had crumbled into a look of mirth.

Jon frowned, stiffening upon realizing he was the butt of some jape.

"Easy lad," Thoros seemed to sense his discomfort, "Only a jest," he assured him, "a little glimpse of my technique."

"Your technique?" Jon didn't understand.

"Yes, you'd be surprised how quickly those words will have milk maids spreading their legs for you," he winked. "And if we take down the Mountain," he let out a low whistle, "I'm sure there will be many thankful maids and a few innkeepers who'll thank us with some free pints."

"Jon Snow."

Both men turned to see Beric Dondarrion sitting atop his horse, Jon didn't need to be told twice answering the lord's summons and leaving Thoros of Myr behind him.

"Yes, my lord?" He asked, once he was near enough. Jon spotted Alyn, a short distance away, he had been chosen to carry the Stark banner, he was milling about with the other Stark men who were dispatched to go with Lord Beric. They were dressed in silvery mail with long grey cloaks.

Jon was disquieted upon realizing how many men his uncle was sending from his own household guard, but knew he could not dissuade his uncle or disobey him.

"Have you seen to the preparations?"

"I have, my lord," Jon answered, "Everyone is accounted for and are waiting upon your command."

"Good work, Jon," Beric nodded.

His horse whinnied nervously as Ghost silently approached. Jon's direwolf's scent stirred discomfort whenever the horses caught wind of it. One knight had already fallen from his horse from when it reared back upon sensing Ghost. Despite the protests of his men, Lord Beric had disallowed all talk of barring the direwolf, saying it could serve a purpose in the fights to come and would be less of a nuisance once they were out of the city.

Lord Beric calmed his horse with a touch. "Don't worry, Jon Snow, You'll be back in Winterfell before you know it." He gave the signal and the portcullis was raised.

Jon looked back at the Tower of the Hand, and of the Stark banner that snapped in the breeze upon its highest turret.

"I gave your father my word." Lord Beric assured him. "That I'll see you safely from this city."

It's him I'm worried about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's reaction to the truth will evolve as the story progresses, but I thought this was a good/believable starting point for him. Hopefully, I wasn't wrong. Also more on his thoughts/reactions to Lyanna, Rhaegar, and the Targs in general.
> 
> Thanks for support. Don't forget to drop a comment. 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	33. Myrcella

She felt tears swell in her eyes.

Princesses don't cry, the scolding voice of her mother played in her mind, but even that couldn't deter Myrcella Baratheon's tears from falling.

He was gone, the truth in the words felt like a sharp prick to her chest. Soon the bells will toll, and all the city will learn that her father, their king had died. By daybreak, Westeros will have a new king, that reminder troubled her. Her older brother was on the cusp of manhood, but showed no readiness of being able to handle the burden that was the crown.

"Princess?"

She turned to see the Lord Commander, Ser Barristan Selmy standing respectfully in the doorway. He was quick to bow his head when their eyes met, "Ser Barristan, should you not be with my father?"

Has it happened? A small voice worried in the back of her mind, Is he here to tell me my father is dead?

"He sent everyone away except Lord Stark," Ser Barristan answered solemnly. "Grand Maester Pycelle will then give your father the milk of the poppy."

A sob wracked through her body, she placed her hands on her table to steady herself. She felt fresh tears slip down her cheeks.

"Princess?" The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard sounded uncertain and or uncomfortable.

Myrcella recovered smoothly, using one hand to wipe away any lingering tears that clung to her cheeks, she then turned back to face the Lord Commander, who stood awkwardly in his armor on the precipice of her room. She gave him an assuring look to alleviate his discomfort while inwardly stemming the grief she felt swelling in her heart. "Is there anything you need?"

He blinked owlishly at her question as if he misheard her. "Princess," he said softly, "I think the more appropriate question is there anything you need?"

"Thank you, Ser Barristan." She replied. "My brother," she said suddenly, "Could I see him?" She didn't need to elaborate on which brother she was referring to.

"Of course, princess," he sounded surprised that she would ask him. "I would be happy to escort you, if you'd like."

"I would."

Her spirits lifted for the moment at the thought of seeing her younger brother. She moved across the room to meet Ser Barristan, who stepped aside to let her pass before falling in step with her as they made the short walk from her chambers to Tommen's.

Her younger brother had been sent to his room shortly after father's return from the hunt. He had only been allowed to stay long enough to see father and speak with him briefly before being sent away by their mother.

Like with Tommen, Myrcella wasn't given much time to say her goodbyes to her father.

"Be strong, child," Her father whispered to her, "And smile," he chuckled, before a spasm of pain covered his face, "Your future is bright," he moved his hand to cover hers, she didn't mind the blood that coated his fingers. "You'll be happy in the north." He squeezed her hand, a hazy hue hooded his blue eyes. "One last request from a selfish man," he sighed, "Forgive me for the father I was, and remember me as a better man then I deserve any right to be."

"Princess?"

"Forgive me, Ser Barristan." She apologized hastily, "My mind was elsewhere."

"I understand," Thankfully, he didn't sound annoyed with her for having stopped paying attention. "Your father was very happy you know, Princess."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he told her, "During the hunt he spoke often about how excited he was about your betrothal with Lord Stark's son and heir." Ser Barristan's eyes were alert of their surroundings, but his blue eyes did glance over towards her to show his sincerity and a smile for what he was saying. "He couldn't stop talking about it."

Myrcella couldn't help but return the Lord Commander's infectious smile, unable to deny the happiness she felt bloom in her chest upon hearing this unexpected information.

"He was very happy for you," Ser Barristan finished, "and proud of the woman you were becoming."

"Thank you," She said unsure the words could properly convey her sincerity. "Truly, Ser Barristan.'

He bowed his head. "You deserved to know." He then looked up, hesitance pulled at his features, "It's the least I can do." Regret made his voice sound tight, the muscles in his face were taut, while his eyes looked distant and unfocused for a brief second.

"Ser Barristan?" Myrcella didn't understand the sudden change in the Lord Commander's demeanor.

The sound of his name seemed to snap him our of his reverie. He looked at her with sad eyes, "I failed your father, my king." His tone was contrite. "I am sorry."

"What are you talking about?"

"The boar," Ser Barristan answered in a tone that conveyed she should've understood. "I should've intervened before it lunged at your father." He shook his head. "But your father wouldn't hear of it. He wanted the kill." Barristan's fingers were clenched around the hilt of his sheathed sword. "My obedience cost him his life."

Grief strummed Myrcella's heart upon hearing the details of her father's mortal demise. She had heard hunting accident, and scant information trickled out following that which left her unable to properly determine what had actually happened.

"I'll have someone else take you the rest of the way," Ser Barristan's melancholy voice broke through her thoughts. The Lord Commander had taken her silence as a sign of her anger, a dismissal that she wanted nothing to do with him.

"No," She held up her hand to stop him from leaving her side. "That won't be necessary."

It was difficult for her in those passing seconds trying to keep her focus on the present while her heart was on the past trying to process what she had just been told.

"My father wouldn't want that,"she placed her hand on his arm, "My father trusted and respected you, Ser Barristan, and so do I."

"Princess," Ser Barristan looked down at her hand, uncertainty laced his tone, "I failed-"

"No," She stopped him before he could go any further, "My father was not a man who let others fight his battles." Myrcella reminded him, "Your only failure would be to let this affect your duties moving forward, Ser Barristan," she steeled herself before meeting the Lord Commander's gaze. "Do you understand?"

He straightened up immediately, "I do, Princess." Relief came instantly to his expression.

"Good," pleased at how that was handled, Myrcella continued towards Tommen's chambers. She was comforted upon hearing the resuming heavy footfalls of her protector, Ser Barristan.

"Princess!" A frazzled looking Septa Eglantine appeared before them, "I was just about to send for you."

"What is it, Septa?" Myrcella kept her voice calm while her eyes surveyed the Septa's haggard appearance.

"It is your brother," she answered, "The prince," she amended, "He wants to see you," the Septa's eyes lingered on her, "And only you."

"Of course," Myrcella wouldn't let her voice crack with worry at the thought of something wrong with Tommen. "I will see to him now."

The Septa's relief was immediate and palpable. "Thank you, Princess," she bowed her head, "I fear nightmares have been troubling the young prince."

"I understand," Myrcella nodded, "Mayhaps, speak with a maester about a tonic to help him sleep?"

"Of course, Princess," Eglantine agreed, "I will see to it, myself."

"I will wait outside, Princess," Ser Barristan was already moving to his position outside the doors that led to Prince Tommen's chambers.

"My brother will be relieved upon knowing you are now guarding him, Ser Barristan." She then stepped into her brother's chambers which were mostly dark, save for a few candles that had been hastily lit upon Tommen waking up suddenly.

In light or darkness, she was confident that she could navigate her way through his chambers, having been here more times then she could count to have it memorized or close enough. It was ahead where Myrcella saw her brother's large four poster bed, the crimson canopy only partially removed, obstructing her brother from seeing her.

"Hello?" her brother's timid voice greeted her.

"Tommen."

"Myrcella!" His voice cracked with relief and joy.

"I'm here."

A candle was lit on the nightstand by her brother's bed, allowing her to see him. She didn't like what she saw. He looked pale, and beads of sweat appeared across his face. "Tommen, what's wrong?" In her worry, she hastened her steps to cut the distance between them.

"Nightmares," he mumbled, his face shying away from her so that she couldn't see his eyes.

"About what?" Her hand cupped his cheek, but she made no effort to force his face to meet her eyes. She'd let her brother look to her at his pace not hers.

"J-Joffrey," his voice wavered, his lips quivered, and Myrcella felt tears brush against her fingers.

Her heart ached for her brother, hearing the pain in his small voice. "It's alright, Tommen," she soothed him, quick to wipe away the tears on his cheeks, "It was only a dream."

"It was so scary," Tommen hiccupped, "He threw me in the Black Cells!"

"I would never let that happen," Myrcella assured him. "Never."

That seemed to placate him. It was enough to have him turn to face her. His green eyes shimmering with tears, but she saw the glint of hope in them from her promise.

In that moment, she felt a burning coil of hatred directed at their older brother in her gut. Knowing he was responsible for making her brother so afraid. Joffrey's cruelty, had inflicted wounds upon Tommen that had her worried she might not be able to heal. Tommen didn't deserve such nastiness directed at him. Myrcella couldn't think of a more kinder, more innocent person then her younger brother. It only highlighted her brother's malice that he could be so willing and craven to direct his vileness towards someone like Tommen.

"Princess?" Ser Barristan's voice broke through her thoughts.

"Yes, Ser Barristan?" She looked over her shoulder to see him standing there.

"Septa Eglantine has returned," he informed her.

"Good," Myrcella was relieved to know that at least her brother could have a restful sleep this night. "Can you bring it to us?"

"Of course," Ser Barristan didn't sound the least bit bothered at such a thankless task. His armored footsteps echoed in the chambers as he made his way to Tommen's bed.

The sight of Ser Barristan seemed to lift her brother's spirits which Myrcella had counted on knowing how much he admired the Lord Commander.

"Princess," he handed her the tonic, before turning to regard Tommen, "My prince."

"Ser Barristan," Tommen said, a smile was quick in forming, "Will you be guarding my chambers tonight?"

"Absolutely, my prince," Ser Barristan answered without hesitation, "It would be my honor."

"Thank you," Tommen stirred under his covers.

The Lord Commander's reply was a kind smile before he excused himself from their chambers and returned to his post.

"Drink this," Myrcella was holding the small vial that contained the tonic, as she put it to her brother's lips, thankful, but not surprised that he listened to her instructions without incident.

He drank it in two sips, before returning his head to his pillows. "Will you stay?"

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," she brushed a few strands of his golden blond hair out of his eyes. "Now, sleep my sweet brother."

\---------------------

"The King will see you now."

The message soured her stomach. She hated it, this wasn't the man she loved, but the boy she hated. She knew one day the title would pass from her father to her brother, but she never thought it would come to pass like this.

I wasn't supposed to be here, she thought. She had hoped to be far away when the fateful day came when her brother would inherit their father's crown. The only solace she found was that Joffrey was under the age to rule in his own right, and would need a regent for another year.

Myrcella allowed none of her discomfort to show towards the messenger. She gracefully got out of her seat and moved across the room to the Small Council Chambers. Guards dressed in Lannister red flanked the doors, with the one on the left opening it for her, but neither made any other movement to acknowledge her presence.

Stepping into the chambers, she spotted him at once, lounging in the seat that had been father's.

No, it was different, she corrected herself, the seat her father sat in when he went to the Small Council meetings had a proud stag of House Baratheon emblazoned on the back, this chair had the stag of House Baratheon, but also the lion of House Lannister, the two animals were in combatant.

From a distance she couldn't deny her older brother was a handsome man. Even when sitting, he couldn't hide his tall and slim frame. His hair long and golden was carefully combed to stay out of his eyes. He was dressed in crimson and gold, his doublet had roaring lions stitched onto them. She had heard servants and noblewoman alike chattering way like hens about her brother's handsome features and bright green eyes.

They were fortunate, she thought, that they hadn't the opportunity to glimpse the ugliness that lay beneath his handsome facade.

Joffrey hadn't noticed her arrival. His attention on a small hunting knife that he was currently using to carve into the table, an action that he seemed to be enjoying.

"Am I early?" She announced her presence. Myrcella looked around the room to see it was empty save for her and her brother. Looking behind at the doors in which she came through, she did spot one other person, Ser Mandon Moore, who stood as still as a statue in his milk colored armor, his eyes meeting her gaze from behind his half helm.

"Sister," Joffrey looked up from what he was carving. "No, you're just on time."

"Where is everyone?" She asked, keeping her tone light, but inside she couldn't quell the small tendril of apprehension curl in her chest.

"I requested to meet with you alone," he stood from his seat, "As their King, my Small Council honored my request." He sheathed his hunting knife, but his eyes never left hers.

"Oh?" Myrcella wouldn't let him sense her discomfort. "I'm honored. You must be so busy with your preparations."

"Fret not, dear sister," he assured her. "I'll always have time for you."

The words had a way of wanting Myrcella to wrinkle her nose in disgust, but she made sure her face remained poised, a mask of indifference, carefully crafted to protect her from her brother's malice.

"How kind of you, brother."

"This must be a trying time for you."

Had he been a stranger to her, Myrcella would've been deceived by his tone and charm and thought them sincere, but she knew her brother better than that.

"The arrest of your future good father…" Joffrey was looking and waiting for any reaction she may have, but she wouldn't allow herself to be bested by him despite the genuine hurt and anger she felt churning within at the thought of Lord Stark currently wallowing in the Black Cells under the order of her brother.

A failed coup, she had dismissed the justification of the arrest as soon as she heard it. News that had devastated her when she discovered what had happened in the Great Hall, the slaughter of Lord Stark's household guards as well as his household within the Tower of the Hand.

It was said, he had tried to usurp the throne from Joffrey.

Lies, Myrcella had refused to believe them. Lord Stark was an honorable man and their father's best friend. He detested politics and power, and to think him selfish enough to make such a bold, reckless move. It was unthinkable for the Princess.

"I have need of you," Joffrey was unable to hide his disappointment that he couldn't get a reaction out of her. "A way to prove your loyalty to your king and family."

Myrcella felt as if a heavy stone had sunk in her stomach. "How may I serve?"

That seemed to please her brother immensely. "You will write a letter to your betrothed, Robb Stark." Joffrey's mouth twisted at his name. "You will tell him that he must come to King's Landing. He must swear fealty to me as his new king, bend the knee to me, and swear to serve me faithfully and only then will he be permitted to succeed his detained father, as the Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North."

She could tell her brother was enjoying it all: the words, the command, the power, he now wielded. His eyes danced with triumph, his lips forming a triumphant smirk.

It was worse than she feared, she realized in silent horror. Her mind racing at how to write such a letter to her betrothed. How could she ask him to make these concessions when her brother, their king had Robb's father in chains in the Black Cells?

She didn't know Robb well, but she knew him well enough to know that he would not respond well to these demands. Thankfully, her brother didn't have Sansa or Jon to hold as hostages or worse prisoners to use to threaten Robb. That was still a sore point still for her mother and Joffrey.

"Mayhaps, if we released Lord Stark," she began, struggling to find a way to make this an easier request for Robb to answer willingly.

"No!" snarled Joffrey, "Lord Stark is a traitor!" His face flushed red in anger. "He will remain in the Black Cells. His privileges as a Lord were forfeited after his seditious act against his rightful king!" He pointed an angry finger at her.

Myrcella took her brother's outburst with a knowing look, inwardly disappointed at Joffrey's shortsightedness and stubbornness, but sadly, not surprised.

"Forgive me," the words burned her tongue, but she said them all the same. "I was only trying to soften the blow for my betrothed."

Joffrey scoffed, "A woman's heart is too soft." His hand moved to rest on the pommel of his beloved sword, Lion's Tooth, "It is why men rule and women follow." He took a step closer towards her.

Myrcella stayed her ground, her eyes locked on his. She let the defiant act stretch on for no more than a few seconds before bowing her head to look meek in his presence. "Of course, brother."

"Now that your role is understood," Joffrey drawled, "You will write the letter," he gestured to the far end of the table where quill and parchment were waiting. "It will be approved by mother and the Small Council."

"Then allow me to get started," Myrcella moved to take her seat, but Joffrey matched her steps and then blocked her.

"Do not fail me," He warned, "I am your King now. You must obey me." He held his hand up to her face as if wanting to caress her cheek.

The idea was enough to rile her stomach in revulsion. However, she knew better then to show any such discomfort, and remained quiet.

"Fail me and I will undo your betrothal in an instant."

She stared back at him, refusing to let him think he won. That he was able to get her upset. It reminded her when they were younger, when he would bully her to try to get her to cry, if she did, then he thought it a success. If he didn't then he'd keep trying until he got frustrated or bored, or both. That would prove to be a bad combination.

"Then don't let me keep you waiting," she stepped around him and slid into her seat.

Joffrey didn't move, she felt his shadow fall over her. "After all, it would be such a shame for you to leave the capital." He bent down, his mouth to her ear, "Tommen would miss you terribly." A cackle followed, "But don't worry, I'd make sure he doesn't get lonely."

Myrcella's grip on the quill tightened, looking down at the blank piece of parchment before her. She refused to move her head until the shadow of her brother was no longer in view.

"I expect it to be sent before even fall tonight," he called out before the door shut behind him.

Forgive me, Robb, knowing in some way she was betraying her betrothed by writing this letter, by looking as if she was siding with her brother, her family over him. That she didn't care about Lord Stark being imprisoned…

That was when she felt the tears swelling her eyes. She took a calming breath and then lifted the quill and began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support you continue to give this story.
> 
> I enjoy reading your comments. So please, keep them coming. 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	34. Jon

"You'll be back at Winterfell soon enough, Master Snow."

Jon looked to Harwin who followed up his promise with an encouraging nod.

But what sort of welcome will I get? Jon wondered quietly. If Lady Stark returned to the ancestral seat of the Starks before him he'd find a chillier reception then even he was used to.

The group of soldiers and nobles who were dispatched by the Hand of the King to bring Gregor Clegane justice for his crimes in the Riverlands had taken a respite half a day's ride from Duskendale. They had also made camp off the main road not wanting to draw any notice from passing travelers as well as riders who Lannisters may have sent out in an effort to return Jon to the capital.

The detour to Duskendale Jon knew was his father's doing. His plan with Lord Beric to get Jon home without having to fight in the Riverlands.

Not your father, your uncle, Jon sighed at the reminder, still trying to grapple with the truth of the revelations of his birth and his true parentage.

Ser Beric had dispatched a few select men to discreetly go to the large port town to gather information and see if it was possible to hire a captain to see Jon safely to White Harbor.

I'm going the wrong way, Jon's frustration stewed in his gut. I shouldn't have abandoned him. Jon continued in his pacing as they waited for news from the scouts that Ser Beric had set out the day before. His duties as squire for the lightning lord done for now, it gave him plenty of time to think and vent of the situation he left behind in King's Landing. Two things that only seemed to make his mood worse.

Too many Stark men, Jon observed, looking around to see the House Stark sigil, a running direwolf on a grey field from banners and shields that were brought by the Stark household guard who had been recruited for this task. There was Harwin, and Alyn, and more than dozen more who Lord Stark had entrusted to ride with Ser Beric.

Too many, Jon found himself repeating, knowing the household guard had been diminished with their ranks thinning, but Lord Stark remained confident he'd be safe in the capital.

Why father? Jon ignored the grating voice that tried to correct his words. He was my father growing up, Jon defended, The only one I'll ever know, Jon added in an effort to silence that gnawing instinct to now address Lord Stark not as father, but as uncle. He raised me.

And I abandoned him, Jon felt a cold touch of melancholy bloom in his chest.

His gloomy thoughts interrupted when he felt a cold press to his hand, he looked down to see his direwolf, Ghost looking up at him with concerned red eyes. He couldn't help but smile at his silent and loyal companion, gently scrubbing the top of his head.

"That's some creature you have there," Thoros of Myr approached them. His eyes were on Ghost. He looked flushed and Jon knew the reason seeing the wineskin the foreign priest was carrying.

"He's my friend," Jon kept his hand on Ghost's head, looking to see his direwolf was staring at Thoros intently.

Thoros laughed, "A good friend, he'd be!"

"They were a gift," Harwin put in, from where he stood. "All of Lord Stark's children have them."

That had been Jon's reasoning, his way of convincing Lord Stark to keep the direwolf pups when they found them. It seemed that it had stuck with Harwin and the others, who learned to embrace it since Jon knew they had wanted to kill the pups when they had first been discovered.

That seemed like a lifetime ago, he thought, looking back on the day, before the news of the king's arrival. When the only thing they had to endure was Sansa's endless talk of her pending wedding, Jon smiled at the memory.

It was simpler then, he found himself thinking, and better.

We were together. We were happy. Jon never should have left for the Wall with his delusions or his misguided need of learning the truth of his parentage. I could've been happy not knowing, he tried to reason with himself. I could've learned to live with not knowing.

You can live with knowing, a soft voice penetrated through his hazy wistfulness.

"A gift?" Thoros' deep voice broke Jon out of his reverie to see the red priest was looking at Ghost with new interest. "What a marvelous gift! Mayhaps, I should seek this person out and hope he gives me one too."

Harwin frowned. "It wasn't given to them by a person, but by the gods," he answered solemnly, "The old gods."

"Is that so?" Thoros let out a deep and loud laugh at that, "Looks like I've been serving the wrong god all this time." he looked down at his red robes with a feigning pout. "To think I was happy with a flaming sword," he shook his head, while smiling. "When I could've been given a direwolf!"

Harwin was scowling at Thoros, not amused by the jovial casualness the red priest seemed to treat their gods with. He wasn't the only one, Alyn, and the other northerners were grumbling their unhappiness too. A few were shooting dark looks at the foreigner who didn't seem to notice or care at the attention he was getting.

"You shouldn't joke about the gods in such a way," warned Alyn, in a quiet and cautious tone.

"This isn't the north," pointed out one of the southerners. He was one of the men-at-arms in Lord Mallery's retinue. He had the family sigil stitched to the front of his leathers, six white mullets on a violet field.

"No ugly trees here!" His derision brought out some laughter from his fellow soldiers that only seemed to embolden him. "Who'd worship something where animals take their piss on?"

"You dare," Harwin growled, taking a step towards the offender. He wasn't the only one as several of Lord Stark's guards were moving behind him, none of them amused by the antics or words that were being directed to either their home or their gods.

"That is enough," Ser Beric didn't need to raise his voice to grab the attention of his men. The Lightning Lord stepped forward behind him were the Riverlands nobles who had come to King's Landing to make their plea on the behalf of their people and homes. Sers Marq Piper, Karyl Vance, and Raymun Darry. As well as Lord Mallery and Ser Gladden Wilde, who had also been tasked to raise men-at-arms by Lord Stark in their pursuit against Clegane.

"We have enemies to face," Ser Beric told them, "And they are not each other," he reminded them, a hint of disappointment and anger colored his tone. "We must fight together, no matter our differences."

"Of course, my lord," the main instigator was quick to bow his head, "I meant no offense," he kept his head low, "Just a jape."

"Be careful with your japes," Ser Beric regarded him coolly, "It is not wise to mock a man's beliefs."

"I will, my lord," he sounded honest in his apologies.

"Will that be all?" Beric turned his attention towards Harwin.

"Yes, my lord," Harwin bowed his head before gesturing to his fellow Stark guards to return to their part of the camp.

"Ser Beric!" A new voice joined, a scout dressed in disguise as a commoner hastily made his way to the Lightning lord with two other scouts on his heels. When they reached him, they bowed their heads simultaneously.

"What news of Duskendale?" Ser Beric asked, looking relieved at not only their safe return but at a chance to change the subject.

"It isn't good, my lord," the scout admitted, a young man with short messy brown hair and brown eyes, "Lannister men patrol the harbors and have been asking about him," The scout turned to Jon. "They've been looking for him and making promises or threats or even bribes about his whereabouts."

Ser Beric sighed. "The lions are thorough," he shook his head in disappointment, "Very well, we'll ride north and hope to find better luck in lands that aren't loyal to the Lannisters." His eyes moved towards Jon. "A promise is still a promise, Snow. I'll have you on your way to Winterfell."

"My father couldn't have selected a better man, my lord." Jon meant every word.

"There's more," the scout looked hesitant to interrupt. "News from the capital."

"What news?" Ser Beric turned back to address the scout.

"The King is dead," the scout bowed his head in respect to deliver the solemn news. The air filled with grumbling and whispering as the men reacted to the unexpected news.  
The scout looked around to gage the reaction before he added, "Lord Stark has been arrested for treason."

\-----------------

Jon crept quietly along their camp that night, making sure most were asleep and the fires were dim or dying before he made his move.

The news from Duskendale had been disheartening to all. To hear of the death of the king had not been taken lightly by the men. They mourned him. The king may have had his faults but the people still loved him for his past prowess in the wars against the Targaryens and the Greyjoys.

Jon found himself feeling a small sliver of pity nestle in his gut towards the man who had killed his real father, the crown prince Rhaegar Targaryen. In his limited interactions with the king while at Winterfell and then in King's Landing, Jon saw a man who struggled with a crown he never wanted and suffered for the injustices he couldn't rectify. It was an ill suit for the warrior who ended up drowning his problems in wine and whores languishing in the past instead of trying to confront the present to better his future.

It's because of him I'll never know my true father, A disquieting revelation, but he felt no anger burn within him upon reflecting on this truth. After all, Robert fought for his very life since Jon' grandfather, Kind Aerys the Second demanded Jon Arryn, Jon's namesake to hand over the Lord of the Storm's End and Jon's uncle, Ned Stark with the intention of killing them both. After having already killed Jon's other grandfather Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Jon's Uncle, Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell.

How can I condemn a man who fought to survive? Jon found himself wondering. Even if It meant that he had to grow up in the cold north of Winterfell as a bastard instead of a prince in King's Landing. The idea of growing up in King's Landing wasn't an appealing one. Jon had had his fill of the capital within a few days from the heat to the stench to the vipers that surrounded the king's court, it was too much for Jon.

What of your siblings? A soft voice broke through his reflection. Aegon and Rhaenys, the names came to him quickly enough, the brother and sister he would never know because of Robert's Rebellion. It was said Robert smiled when he saw the children's bloodied corpses. He would smile over your body too, a chill went through him at that disquieting thought. That had been why Lord Stark spared him and called him his own.

He is my father, Jon thought, Uncle, the insistent voice tried to worm its way back into Jon's consciousness. No, Jon crushed the voice as if it was an annoying insect. He was tired of its ever need to remind him of who he now was. I know who I am.

Jon was pulled out of his thoughts when he thought he heard a noise behind him. He stopped at once, and peered out into the darkness of the surrounding woods, still, but alert. He knew it couldn't be Ghost, his direwolf was out hunting, Jon didn't fret about leaving him knowing that Ghost would find his way back to Jon's side.

He stood for a few heartbeats until he was certain it was safe again. Then he continued his hastily but quiet retreat to where they kept their horses tied.

Jon moved slowly around the last campfire, one eye on the resting men, who snored and stirred in their sleep, and the other eye on the horses in front of him. Satisfied, that the men would not wake, he quickened his pace, one hand on the bag he slung over his shoulder which contained his rations.

He took as little as possible not liking the idea of stealing from Ser Beric and the others. So, he had just taken two pieces of dry jerky, three apples, and a piece of bread, believing that would be enough for the short ride back to King's Landing. Jon only hoped the men wouldn't be angry with him but that they'd understand.

Jon knew he'd get that from Harwin, Alyn, and the other Stark guards who had not taken kindly to the news of their liege lord not just being arrested, but the slander and dishonor that came with the charge of treason. They protested loudly and angrily amongst themselves and seemed keen on leaving right there to defend their liege lord before Ser Beric reminded them of their duties and carrying out the last orders of Lord Stark.

They can stay, Jon thought, but I'm not leaving my father to rot in some cell.

"Going somewhere?"

Jon froze in the dark at the familiar, unexpected voice.

"It is improper for a squire to leave without getting permission from his master," Beric's tone brought with it a gentle scolding.

"That was a farce," Jon found himself defending his honor, "A ruse," he insisted, "To get me safely from the city." He found his tone more bitter then he had ever intended.

"Mayhaps," Beric stepped into view, his face half hooded in shadows. "However, the vow I made to your father was not."

"It doesn't matter," Jon argued, "My father is in a cell and I plan on doing something about it!" He took his newfound courage and stalked over to his horse.

"And what's that?" Beric called after him.

"What?" Jon looked over his shoulder to see Lord Beric had taken another cautionary step closer to him.

"What do you plan on doing?"

"Freeing him!" Jon knew it sounded childish as soon as he said it, but in his pride, he wouldn't admit it.

"Ah," no hint of condescending within his tone. "You will fight the city watch?" He took a step closer, "The Lannister men in the Red Keep?" Another step, "The Kingsguard itself?"

"I'll do what I have to free him."

"You'll end up in a cell with your father," Ser Beric said gently, "and that is if you're not killed first."

At least he won't be alone, Jon wanted to respond, but he stopped himself.

"Your father already has a task for you," Beric reminded him, "One he insisted we see through."

"To run and hide?" Jon shot back, surprising himself with the anger in his voice.

"To live," Beric corrected him, "Your father knew what was coming and did everything he could to shield you and the others from it."

Jon felt tears swell in his eyes, he scrubbed them away with the back of his hand. Don't cry, he chided himself, feeling himself being pulled in two different directions. While the cold tendrils of guilt remained tightly wrapped around his heart. Forcing him to see the same image in his mind's eye, his father in some deep, dark cell, alone and forgotten. He bit his lip to stop himself from letting out a shout of frustration at the circumstances in front of him.

"Don't you see," his voice strained, "I'm failing him!"

"No, Jon, you're not," Beric was close enough to put a calming hand on his shoulder, "You're honoring him and his wishes."

It doesn't feel like an honor, Jon wanted to spit back, but he found his will wavering. His plans to return to the capital crumbling.

"I am sorry," Jon's shoulders sagged in defeat, at accepting the current fate of the man who raised him as a father would a son.

"It's alright," Beric assured him kindly, "No harm was done that cannot be undone," he gestured back to their camp, "Come, let us rest. We have a long day of riding ahead of us."

While Ser Beric moved back towards the camp, Jon remained where he stood. He looked towards the horses one more time, before sighing, and realizing the hopelessness of his plan.

Forgive me, father.

\-----------------------------

"Lions are prowling the roads, Lord Beric," a scout with the livery of House Wylde informed him, the blueish green maelstrom on a gold field on his shield. "They stalk Maidenpool."

"How is this possible?" demanded the scout's master, Ser Gladden Wylde.

"It seems they had already been there trying to follow a lead when they believed Lord Domeric and his betrothed would be leaving from the port and had come to stop that from happening."

At that, Jon couldn't help but smile upon hearing that his friend had so fully duped the Queen and her forces by planting those false leads which had them believe he'd be leaving from either Duskendale or Maidenpool. Jon had to make sure to inform Domeric of this the next they meet, knowing the heir to the Dreadfort would find it very amusing.

"And were told to stay when they got word from the capital of his departure," the scout's words brought Jon to pay attention once more only to notice the scout was looking at him. "The Lord of Maidenpool has done nothing to deter them."

"They want you bad," Thoros observed with a wry grin, "To think these important people spending so much time for a bastard."

Jon stiffened at the moniker but he was careful not to show that the word upset him. When his annoyance faded, he was left to ponder what was next for him. If he could not secure passage on a boat to White Harbor did that mean he'd have to continue to travel with Ser Beric, and see through their mission against Gregor Clegane?

The thought of fighting the Mountain and his raiding parties brought a cold feeling of trepidation to settle in his gut. Jon had heard of the knight's brutality and unseen strength and size. Who's skills as a warrior were only surpassed by his cruelty. His hesitance aside, Jon also knew that such a man should not be allowed to prowl the countryside, raping and murdering unchecked.

"Greedy Lannisters," mumbled Harwin, "Their ambition knows no limit." He scoffed, "For them to keep such a force near the Riverlands they insult House Tully."

"House Tully had enough problems to worry about," reminded Ser Gladden Wylde, a short man with thinning dark hair, but a bushy beard, his family's sigil proudly emblazoned on his armor. "If the rumors coming out of the Golden Tooth turn out to be true."

The news had been disquieting when it had reached their party two days ago. A host amassing just outside the Riverland borders. It had been enough to cause Sers Piper, Vance, and Darry to leave with their men when it was reported of a devastating Tully loss against the Lannister forces on the hills below Golden Tooth.

"My lord," Lord Mallery injected politely, "Mayhaps, we should return to the capital?" The crownlands lord suggested, "We have a new king. We may have new orders." The men-at-arms he brought with him were murmuring in agreement.

"No," Ser Beric declined that suggestion at once, "Our orders do not change," he turned to regard Lord Mallery, a tall, weedy looking man with a wispy moustache and darting blue eyes. "Gregor Clegane is still raiding and killing innocence. He must be stopped."

"Here, here," Alyn voiced his support, the young, comely man with hopes of knighthood, looked eager at the idea of a pending battle and the chance to prove his valor.

"Of course," Lord Mallery bowed his head.

"I appreciate your counsel," Ser Beric assured him, "But we must see this through. We must carry out the king's justice." His words earned a hearty cheer from the men including several from House Mallery.

"Another scout!" Thoros called out, pointing to their western position, to spot a speck that resembled the rider that Beric had tasked to ride west into the Riverlands to try to scout and locate Gregor Clegane and his men.

Jon wondered if the news out of the Riverlands could get worse. Since they left the capital for their mission, they had yet to receive any information worth celebrating. Whether it was from Duskendale with the news of King Robert's death and Lord Stark's arrest. To the Tully defeat and the Lannister army advancing unchecked deeper into the Riverlands with their sights on Riverrun, the seat of House Tully, Lady Stark's childhood home.

"My lord," The rider looked haggard as he approached, his horse worked to a lather, "News of Clegane!"

That brought loud buzzing from the surrounding men, who no doubt was anxious and ready to face the men they were tasked to defeating. The last few days of riding with nothing to show for it had made the men bored and restless.

"What is it?" Beric asked calmly.

"He's been reported Northwest of our position, a few days ride from us," he said in between deep breaths as he tried to regain his composure, "Near the Red Fork," the rider's face paled, "His men are raping girls of six and seven, and cutting babes from the breasts or wombs of the women." He nearly gagged at that last report, "I've seen the bodies," he shuddered.

A burst of shouts of dismay and anger clamored to be heard as the men showed their indignation at the cruelty that Gregor Clegane was unleashing on the countryside.

"Then our path is clear," Ser Beric said, bringing the other voices to a hush. His eyes found Jon, and he was sure he saw a look of regret on his face upon realizing he couldn't see Jon safely to the north as planned. "We ride to the Red Fork."

\-----------------------

The wind carried the scent of man, but that didn't deter him. He could smell his prey, taste its fear while he prowled through the darkness, steps careful and measured not wanting to alert its chase of its pending death.

Noises pulled at his senses, forcing him to turn away from his prey to see men marching through. Carefully, he slipped away from sight, hackles raised, ready to strike if needed, but in his position they could not see him, so he watched and waited. There he saw them carrying banners, talking loudly amongst themselves uncaring or unafraid of the dangers that lurked in the night.

On the cloth and shields, he saw many images illuminated by the torch light: A black hooded man on a grey field, surrounded by fire, three blue beetles on a golden field, a purple unicorn on a field of silver, a black and white boar on a brown field and there was more, as they passed, each one with dozens of men walking beneath it.

Enemies, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, and the realization caused him to growl, but not wanting to be caught or surrounded he backed away, shying from the sound that the advancing soldiers made.

Sticking to the bushes and the thick trees that grew close together, he slid quietly as a shadow until he saw the reflection of the river before him. The smell of blood and death drifted towards him, as did large orange glows, creeping closer he saw it was a town, smoldering in ruins, and even in the darkness he saw outlines of bodies that littered the ground, birds having already begun to claim their prizes.

In the glow of the unchecked fires, he saw a man, taller and bigger than any he'd ever seen, a towering silhouette who stood, silent watching the flames burn the town. Men were laughing and cheering as screams of woman and cries of children could be heard, but the large man did nothing, watching the death and destruction with disinterest.

A name came to him from the back of his mind, Gregor Clegane. Causing a swell of anger to burn inside of him, teeth bared and he let out a low snarl. The temptation to stalk in the darkness to bring down this monster was great, but he temped his anger with caution, aware of what the man was capable of. Instead, he stood in the darkness and saw more and more men marching along the river- it was an army.

Jon gasped in the darkness, feeling sweat dribbling down his face, as the intense images of his dreams were slow to fade. He could smell the scents of the people nearby before seeing them approach, but it was fleeting sensation, retreating away as Jon was left confused in the darkness trying to understand what he had just seen.

Ghost, he murmured in realization. I was him, he declared with clear clarity.

"Jon?" That was Harwin, his face showed concern as it was illuminated by the dimming embers of a nearby fire.

"Beric," Jon found himself saying, his throat suddenly parched, "I need to see him."

If Harwin was confused or insulted by being given these instructions, he didn't show it. He gave Jon a quick nod before retreating out of sight to get Ser Beric.

"Who was the lucky girl?" Thoros joked, coming from his left, a waterskin in his hand. He seemed to sense his confusion, "What you weren't having a good dream?" He smiled.

"No," Jon answered stiffly, not even sure what he experienced could be considered a dream.

"Pity," Thoros handed him the waterskin.

"Thanks," Jon took it and drank from it greedily, the cool water soothing his dry throat.

"What's this about, Jon?" Ser Beric was approaching them with Harwin right behind him. Ser Gladden Wylde and Lord Lothar Mallery had also joined, the former looking at him curiously, while the latter didn't bother to show his disdain, not liking the idea of being summoned by a bastard.

The images he had seen remained faintly imprinted to his mind, that was when a name came to him. "Mummer's Ford," Jon told them, "The Mountain is there."

"The Mountain? Gregor Clegane?" Beric repeated.

"Yes," Jon ignored the looks he was getting from the others. "With an army," he could still see the banners, countless ones, he wasn't familiar with all of them, but he knew what they represented-The Westerlands.

"It's a trap."

"How can you know all this?" demanded Lothar Mallery.

"A vision," Thoros murmured solemnly.

"No," Jon shook his head, "Ghost."

Harwin was the first to understand. "Warg," he said, looking at Jon as if he had never seen him before. A hush settled over the northerners at that solemn revelation.

I'm a warg, Jon knew it to be true, and it left him feeling numb. He was unable to shake the stories that Old Nan use to tell them when they were children of the scary and dangerous wargs who sowed mischief and wreaked havoc on the innocence with their dark magic throughout the lands.

Jon swallowed thickly at the reminder. Yet, he couldn't refute it. It had been too vivid. What he saw, what he smelled, they were real. They were things he experienced. I am Ghost and Ghost is me Jon understood it now, why he felt such a connection to his direwolf, such a closeness that he couldn't quite figure out.

Am I the only one who has it? He wondered, thinking back on his siblings and their respected direwolves. Did they have it as well? A question he'd have to ask whenever he saw them again.

"Impossible," Lord Mallery dismissed, "Northern nonsense," he ignored the glares he got from Harwin and the others. "They're just dreams," he waved his hand as if he could swat Jon's words away. "Nothing more, but a child afraid of a nightmare."

"They're not dreams," Jon blurted out, uncaring in that moment of his social standing as he couldn't keep in check the hot anger he felt churning in his gut at Mallery's disrespect.

"Calm yourself," Beric intervened before Lord Lothar could reply with some insult or dismissal, or both.

"You have to believe me," Jon focused his attention back on Lord Beric. "What I saw. It's real."

Beric didn't speak right away. He crouched down, quietly taking in Jon's appearance, inspecting him, looking for something, but he didn't say what it was. As he silently studied Jon, his face was pensive, unyielding in what it was he was searching for.

The seconds and the silence stretched on, the men muttering behind them, confused and curious at what it was Ser Beric was doing until finally, Ser Beric stood, but his eyes remained on Jon. "I believe him."

His words brought out a cacophony of complaints and cheers from the men such as Lord Mallery protesting his opinion.

"Now what do we do?" Ser Gladden was the first to ask the inevitable question.

"This doesn't change anything," Ser Beric told the assembled men.

"We're still going after him?" Lord Mallery gaped.

"Yes," Beric answered, "We will bring the man to justice."

"He has an army waiting for us," Lord Mallery pointed out.

"He does," Beric didn't seem bothered by that, "But we know of the pending trap."

"How does that help us?" Lord Mallery demanded.

"We have an advantage that they won't be expecting," It was clear Beric already had a beginning of a plan forming in his head, "A means to meet Clegane not his army on our terms." Beric's eyes returned to Jon. "We ride at first light."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support you continue to give this story. It means a lot. 
> 
> It's always a treat to get your feedback and to read your comments. Thanks for the time. 
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	35. Robb

"You didn't have to do this."

"Nonsense, Cley," Robb assured his friend and heir to House Cerwyn, glancing over to the seat beside him to see Cley was humbled by the attention and the feast that Robb had put together to celebrate his announced betrothal to Lady Jorelle Mormont. "House Cerwyn is a loyal vassal to House Stark. It is my family's responsibility to celebrate such occasions."

Cley took his reasoning with a nod before going back to his drink.

The great hall was bustling with noise as men of Winterfell and Cerwyn were drinking and eating, laughing and talking. Robb took it all in at the high table, still finding it strange and a bit uncomfortable sitting in his father's seat.

It is only temporarily, he was quick to remind himself. Once father is done in the south, he will return to take up his rightful duties as Lord of Winterfell. Something Robb would gladly accept, believing he still had much to learn from his father before it was truly his turn to become Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

When news had reached Winterfell of the agreed upon betrothal between Houses Mormont and Cerwyn, Robb was determined to honor the pact and show his family's gratefulness to two of their loyal vassals in the form of a feast. He believed it was his acting duty as Lord of Winterfell to congratulate them and to bless the future union.

He still sought the advice of Maester Luwin, who had agreed to Robb's assessment. Luwin then consulted the steward to make sure the feast wouldn't put a dent into Winterfell's storage of food and ale or threaten their winter provisions.

To his immediate right sat the guest of honor, and his friend, Cley Cerwyn, who shied away at the attention and the toasts that were being made to his family and his betrothal. On Robb's other side sat Lord Medger Cerwyn, a soft-spoken man, but after several tankards of ale, he laughed loudly and was playfully shouting towards some of his more rowdier men-at-arms, cheering them on in their drinking, and adding his thoughts on their singing. It was quite the contrast to the man Robb was used to seeing and interacting with when he had visited Winterfell in the past.

At Lord Medger's other side sat his daughter, the Lady Jonelle Cerwyn, a plump, kind faced woman of thirty, who timidly sat in her seat, eating her food while shooting longing glances at Theon, who was sitting on Cley's other side. Maester Luwin sat on the other side of Theon with Bran and Rickon.

He returned his attention to see his friend, and the guest of honor was nursing his tankard, slouching in his seat as if hoping the chair would swallow him up.

"Next time you'll be sitting here with your new wife," Robb grinned.

Cley's cheeks flushed at the reminder. "I am honored to take Lady Jorelle as my wife."

"You bagged yourself a she-bear, Cley!" Theon clapped him on the back. "But best be careful with them during the bedding or you might get hurt." He smirked at his jape. "Let's just hope your honed and ready."

Robb chuckled into his tankard at his friend's bawdy joke and was pleased that Theon was wise enough not to say it so loud so Robb's brothers or Lord Medger would hear it.

"To House Cerwyn!" Three tankards of ale clanged together at the high table from Robb, Theon, and Cley while a chorus of support echoed off the walls of the great hall.

"Hear, hear," cried the chorus of servants and guards who were sitting and drinking around the great hall. None had been louder then Lord Medger. Whose voice seemed to rise with each passing drink.

Robb cleared his throat to get everyone's attention, standing up as he did, willing himself to not to fidget when every eye in the great hall turned to him. "To the union of House Cerwyn and House Mormont, may it bring the families peace, prosperity, and plenty of children" Robb laughed, as did others throughout the hall while another hearty cheer went up before everyone drank.

"It's still strange," Cley admitted, looking at his half-filled tankard, "to be betrothed." He let out a weak chuckle, "I knew this day would come, that it was my duty as the heir, but for it to be already here." He shook his head in dismay, looking like he was still trying to comprehend that it was finally here.

"I know how you feel," Robb told him, images of a cute princess with long golden hair and bright green eyes that shone like emeralds came to his mind's eye, causing a smile to form on his lips as he reflected on his own beautiful and kind betrothed, Myrcella.

"To our brides to be," Robb raised his tankard to Cley for another toast.

"Aye," Cley smiled, meeting his tankard with Robb's before the two friends drank to their future wives.

Robb smacked his lips together, relishing the smooth, crisp taste of the ale.

"And to the whores I fu-" Theon not wanting to be left out had decided to make his own toast.

"Theon," Robb sent his friend a warning look not to finish that thought.

The heir to the Iron Islands responded with a shrug before settling on finishing his drink and not his lewd toast.

"You sister is at Bear Island?" Cley asked.

"Aye, Arya is," Robb confirmed. And judging from her last letter was enjoying herself.

"Has she perchance mentioned the Lady Jorelle in any of her letters?" Cley was trying but failing to sound casual with his question.

Theon was grinning, not bothering to hide his amusement.

"I'm sorry to say that my sister Arya isn't one to mention in her letters how pretty the girls are," Robb chuckled alongside Theon, the two friends unable to contain their amusement. "She prefers to write about how they fight." Robb smiled at the reaction that had gotten from Cley, "And Arya mentions how good a shot the Lady Jorelle is, claiming she could be better than Theon."

"I doubt it," Theon scoffed, insulted at the mere suggestion.

"Arya also says that the Lady Jorelle keeps a dagger beneath her dress."

Cley began coughing up his ale at that reveal, Theon laughed, thumping Cley on the back as the heir to Cerwyn castle was trying to recover from his choking fit.

"T-that is good to know," Cley wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. Looking a bit alarmed at that new piece of information.

Robb shifted his attention towards his younger brothers, looking over to see Bran and Rickon at the end of the table. The latter was grinning, with his head on a swivel, wanting to take it all in. While the former looked more withdrawn and sullen, using his fork to mash his food instead of eating it.

He sighed at Bran's aloof behavior not faulting his younger brother for his gloominess knowing that Bran was tired of the looks and whispers that followed him whenever Hodor carried him into a room. Robb tried his best to stamp them out whenever he was present, informing them such behavior would not be tolerated.

He still fondly remembered the smiles and whoops of joy from his brother when the saddle cleverly designed by Lord Tyrion was a success and allowed Bran to ride once more. Something his younger brother cherished above all else besides climbing. A miracle that had nearly been ruined due to the trouble they had found on Bran's first ride.

Robb instinctively clenched his fists at the reminder of what had happened to his brother, and how close he had been to losing him to those treacherous deserters of the Night's Watch and their wildling followers. The reminder caused Robb to look up, eyes scanning amongst the servants before he found who he was looking for.

There she was, legs bound, carrying a tray of empty tankards. The only wildling to have survived the altercation between Robb and her allies. Men and women, she was quick to disassociate herself with when they lay dead at her feet, and her fate in his hands.

To expect any loyalty from a wildling was folly, Robb reminded himself, recalling his lessons with Maester Luwin and of his father's warnings when dealing with the folk north of the Wall. How they were treacherous and murderous, raping and stealing in their raids when they were brave enough to venture south of the wall. Only attacking farmers and others who couldn't put up much resistance to their bloody barbarism.

"That her?" Cley's voice broke Robb out of his thoughts about the wildlings.

He blinked, realizing he had been staring at the wildling woman, at Osha, a voice in his mind reminded him. "Aye," Robb looked away, "What's left of her raiding party." He felt the urge for another drink not wanting to be reminded of what had happened to his brother and what was so close to happening. He nearly shuddered, instead he took a long sip, draining his tankard while the soothing taste of ale went down.

"They grow bolder," Cley shook his head in disgust. "Theon says they mentioned some king they follow."

Robb remembered, "A deserter of the Night's Watch, Mance Rayder." His fists tightened their grip around his empty tankard, remembering how they had wanted to take Bran as a hostage for their king. Robb bit down the growl that threatened to slip past at the threat they had posed on his brother, on the callousness in how they regarded Bran, a boy. He would've killed them all with his bare hands if given the chance.

"Oath breathers and cravens," Cley muttered darkly, "They belong together."

"Aye," Lord Medger hiccupped in agreement.

"Sister," Cley called for his older sister, "I think its time that our father retired," he gave their father a pointed look, which he was oblivious to in his near drunken stupor.

"Of course, brother," She stood up from her seat, gently putting her hand on her father's shoulder, to get his attention. "Come, father." The Lord of Cerwyn castle didn't fight his daughter guiding up, he looked half asleep when he got to his feet.

Lady Jonelle turned to Robb, "My father and I are thankful for this feast," she tried to curtsey, but it proved difficult while she kept an arm on her slouching father.

"Just as my family is thankful to have you as loyal bannermen," Robb smiled at her, noticing a slight blush on her plump cheeks. He also saw how her eyes lingered on Theon before she finally left their seat at the high table and made their way out of the great hall and towards the guest house which is where they'd be staying for the night.

"I haven't seen my father this happy for a long time," Cley observed, "Probably since I was born when he finally got his heir."

"Your father is a good man," Robb told his friend.

"As is yours," Cley replied, "Does he know about the latest wildling attack?"

"Aye, I sent him a raven afterwards." He wanted to keep him informed of what was happening in the north knowing that his father's heart remained in the north with his people even if he was stuck serving as Hand to the King in the south.

"We should bring the fight to them!" Theon suggested. A loud cheer of encouragement went up at his idea, hearty noises of agreement. Pleased, and emboldened by the rousing support he was getting, as well as the ale he had been drinking, Theon got to his feet to continue, "If they want a fight, I say let's give them one!"

Robb wasn't sure what was worse, his friend's suggestion or the reception it was getting from the men in the hall.

"Enough nonsense," Maester Luwin was quick to speak to try to stamp the idea out before it could spread. "That decision isn't for you to make," he reminded Theon, "And a strategy stemming from drinking," Luwin shook his head, "Is never an ideal approach."

"The squid's right!" shouted one man, the sigil of House Cerwyn on his tunic. "The wildlings raid our lands, steal our women," the men began to murmur to one another, "We should show them our strength!" He flourished the knife he had been using to cut his meat. "Give their women a taste of our blades," he winked at that, earning guffaws and lusty cheers. "I don't know about you men," he said, looking around the room, "But my axe is honed and ready to take out some wildlings!"

Robb felt cold drops of dread fill his stomach as he watched the men in front of him. He recognized the merits of Theon's idea, but there was a time and a place, and this was not it. The last thing he needed was drunk men roused with blood lust and foolish notions all stewing in Winterfell's great hall.

"Let's start with this one!" one man shouted, grabbing Osha's arm, who shouted in protest before punching the man who wasn't expecting it. He stumbled backwards but his grip on her arm remained which threatened to pull her down with him when he fell, but two of his friends, kept him from falling while a third grabbed Osha's other arm to stop her protesting.

"Kill the bitch!" Someone in the crowd shouted.

"Enough!" Robb got to his feet, praying he looked and sounded intimidating enough to quell this unrest and to stop any potential blood from being spilt. His voice had caught his direwolf's attention, Grey Wind stirred from where he had been resting, and made his presence known with a low, threatening growl.

Summer and Shaggydog had joined Grey Wind as an impressive show of force with the former showing his sharp teeth while the latter growled and snapped his jaws, looking ready to strike.

Seizing the initiative, and emboldened by the presence of the three direwolves, Robb addressed the men. "You will release her at once," he demanded, pleased when they obeyed without hesitation, eyes still on the direwolves.

"Have you forgotten the traditions of our ancestors? She is under my protection," Robb reminded them, "the same as all of you."

Robb then gestured to two of his guards, "Take her back to her chambers and make sure she is not disturbed and that she remains alone." He saw a look flicker across Osha's face when their eyes met as she was led out of the hall, but he didn't have time to figure out what it meant.

"This feast is over." He looked around to see or note any potential unrest or disagreement stemming from his decision, but it looked like they had been mollified. A feat he knew that was mostly accomplished through the intimidating presence of the direwolves, but as long as the unrest had been thwarted, Robb was thankful.

"Well said, my lord," Luwin voiced his approval, "You brought sense to men when it seemed they lost theirs at the bottom of their tankards."

"I think the direwolves did that," Robb pointed out, watching the three of them returning back to their positions behind the high table.

"They may have caught their attention," Luwin admitted, "But it was your words that returned them to their senses."

"Thank you, maester," Robb replied sincerely, "Could you take Bran and Rickon to their chambers."

"Of course, my lord."

"No!" Rickon protested, "I want you to take me!"

"Rickon," Robb warned his youngest brother trying to mimic the stern tone he heard father use on them when they misbehaved. "Maester Luwin will take you to your chambers and if he reports that you listened and obeyed his instructions, then I will visit you shortly."

That met with Rickon's approval, who nodded eagerly, and was quick to follow Maester Luwin out of the great hall with Hodor carrying Bran behind them, Hodoring as he went.

"Forgive my men, Robb," Cley looked taken aback at the blood lust and hatred that was on display only moments ago. "I will speak to those who grabbed your servant," Cley said the last word with some difficulty, unable to keep his own dislike of the wildling out of his voice. "And make sure they understand their behavior reflects poorly on my family."

Robb nodded his thanks, "let us hope it was the ale that fueled them."

"Aye," Cley agreed, but his eyes showed that he didn't truly believe the sentiment.

The last thing Robb needed was for some of his bannermen to grow unruly and restless while his father was away and try to start a war against the wildlings.

I won't let that happen, Robb vowed to himself. Father trusted me to run the north while he was away, and Robb would not fail him.

\-----------------------------------

"Look at them all!" Rickon looked out the window in Bran's room with wide eyes watching the dozens upon dozens of ravens taking flight from the maester's turret. He began listing off names for all the birds that were flying away.

Robb smiled at his brother's innocence. From his view he saw the flapping of black wings that threatened to blot out the sun as they flew away from Winterfell in all directions, looking like drifting black clouds.

Their messages were all the same.

He had called the banners.

In response to a letter he had gotten from the capital.

Robb had been excited when he had been told by Luwin that he had a new letter from the Princess. It had been a pleasant surprise since he had only just sent his last correspondent a day or so ago. He had it quickly broken the seal, recognizing her neat scrawl as he began to read it. His happiness quickly wilting with each passing sentence, by the end of it, he felt a heavy stone settle in his gut.

Come to King's Landing, bend the knee to my brother, save your father, save our betrothal.

That had just been part of the message that had been written and sent by Myrcella, his betrothed.

"It is a summons, my lord," Luwin had told him. "This is a royal command," the maester sounded weary, "If you should refuse to obey-"

"I won't," Robb cut in, feeling the flicker of anger growing in his gut. "If the King summons me to King's Landing then I'll go to the capital." He looked down at the letter, at Myrcella's writing, before he closed it, not wanting to see it anymore. "But not alone."

"My lord?"

"Call the banners."

"Where are they all going?" Rickon's question pulled Robb back to the present to see his youngest brother looking at him.

"To our bannermen." Bran answered in a hollow tone.

"Aye," Robb confirmed. He had hoped they wouldn't have put it together so quickly. He meant to tell them, but it wasn't supposed to be now. Let them have a few more days not knowing what he had to do. Of them not knowing what had happened. For them to be oblivious and happy and to not know that more change was coming to Winterfell.

"Why?" Rickon's innocence shining as brightly as his inquisitive blue eyes.

Robb didn't answer right away. In truth, he didn't want to answer at all, not now at least, but he wouldn't lie to them. He sat at the edge of Bran's bed, and called Rickon to join him, which he did with some reluctance since he was enjoying looking out at the window and watching the birds fly. He settled himself beside Robb.

"Something's happened in the south," Robb told them. "I've called the banners."

"You can't!" Rickon shook his head, "Only the Lord of Winterfell can do that! That's what the grey man said."

"That's right," Robb sighed. However, before Robb could go further, Bran spoke. He had figured it out.

"It's father."

"No!"

"Rickon," Robb grabbed his brother before he could storm off and go on one of his tantrums. "Father is alive," he pressed him to his chest, trying his best to soothe his wild and upset brother. "I'm going to get him back."

"Don't leave!" Rickon was sobbing. "You can't leave!" His anguish and anger causing his voice to hitch and crack.

Robb could feel his brother shaking. "I'll be back."

"Don't go!" Rickon wailed, his small hands suddenly clasping to Robb's back with such desperation it was as if he feared Robb would disappear in that moment if he loosened his grip.

"I'll bring back father and mother," Robb assured him. "I promise."

"No!" Rickon wouldn't hear of it. He was now squirming and fighting trying to break free. Shaggydog had grown aggravated, getting to his feet and barking and growling as if sensing Rickon's distress and anger. Grey Wind rose as well to keep his littermate in line.

"Rickon, please," Robb kept his grip on his brother, but it was proving difficult with each passing second as his brother continued to fight.

"No, you won't," Rickon's tone was frantic, sniffling as he spoke. Rickon landed an unexpected kick into Robb's gut pushing the air out of his lungs and causing him to loosen his grip. Sensing freedom, Rickon slid out from Robb's grasp, darting out of the room wailing with a howling Shaggydog following behind.

"Rickon!" Robb called after his brother, struggling to breathe from the accidental but ferocious kick.

"Everyone's leaving us." Bran said softly.

"I know," Robb wouldn't try to deny it. "But we will be together again," He grabbed Bran's hand. Hoping to elicit some sort of reaction from his brother who seemed to grow more detached with each passing day.

"All of us, I promise."

\---------------------------

"What do you have there?"

That night, Robb had found himself back in his chambers, exhausted from everything that had transpired throughout the day, but it would not deter him from his current task. He looked up from his desk to see Maester Luwin was in the doorway, a curious gleam in his grey eyes, when their eyes met, the maester bowed his head.

"How is Rickon?"

"As unruly as ever," Luwin answered lightly, but his face remained stoic, "I've given him a calming draught. He's asleep now."

"Good," Robb wouldn't forget his brother's reaction when he realized that Robb too would be leaving Winterfell like so many of their family had before him. The draught was a temporary balm, Robb knew, but it was a relief to know his brother would get some peaceful rest after such a trying ordeal.

I'm not going anywhere yet, he reminded himself, and Robb would make sure he'd still find time for Rickon and Bran in the days and weeks to come while he prepared for his march south.

"Did you get what I asked?"

"I did," Luwin stepped into the room, a small scroll in his hand, "The Princess' last letter."

Robb took it with a nod, steeling himself before unfurling it and reading it once more. The words were just as difficult to read as it was the first time. To see these commands, to read this indifferent tone from the warm and friendly Princess' scrawl was difficult to stomach, but he made himself read through all of it, and when it was over, he found the cold trepidation in his gut dissipate. A smile came to his lips as he put down the letter.

"My lord?" Luwin sounded concerned.

"You asked what this all was," Robb referred to the maester's first question upon entering his chambers, gesturing to his desk where a handful of letters were resting.

"I did."

"They're from the Princess," Robb answered, "All of them," he picked one of them up, still smiling, "Each one starts exactly the same asking after Bran," his eyes skimming over the letter he had grabbed. It had been the first one she had written to him.

"Whether he was unconscious," he held up said letter, "or after she learned he woke up." He pointed to another one, "And asked about his riding after her Uncle's specially designed saddle had been created." Robb put it down feeling elated.

"She ends them all the same too," Robb told the maester, a feeling of warmth and gratitude filled him, "saying that my brother Bran is first in her prayers." It was only now rereading them to confirm his suspicion did he realize how fortunate he was to one day call this thoughtful and compassionate woman his wife.

"But not this one," Robb held the newest letter in his hands that claimed his father was a traitor and demanded that Robb bend the knee to her brother, he slowly tightened his grip around the letter. "There is no mention of my brother, no asking after him. Don't you see?" He moved towards the hearth in his room where a fire was going.

"This is her writing, but not her words." He tossed the letter into the fire and watched with growing satisfaction as the flames took to it hungrily. They still had the letter she wrote to his mother, but this was suppose to be for him. This was meant to be some cruel ploy, a means to hurt him, to divide them, but he wouldn't let that happen.

"It's not just my father I'm going to get from the capital."

"My lord?"

"I mean to bring the Princess back with us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tommyginger for taking the time to comment on the last chapter. As well as for the great support you've continued to show this story. It's always great to hear from you. It means a lot. 
> 
> Thanks for the time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	36. The Maester

He watched the raven fly off until it was little more than a black dot in the cloudless night.

Swift wings, Uthor encouraged his messenger, hoping it reached its destination in haste. He rested his hands on the merlons of the ramparts on the outer walls of the Dreadfort. This small area around his tower was what he called, the perch. His tower's door only a few steps from him. He could hear it creaking softly from the gust of wind that swirled around him.

Red dots lined the walls, signaling the flaming braziers as he could see the shadows of loyal sentries and guards standing watch. Vigilant for riders and threats that could descend upon the castle.

Even with his message sent, he lingered on his little perch. He savored the caress of the cold, northern wind as it provided a calming chill to his aching joints and stiff muscles. He felt the crisp air was sometimes a better remedy then any tonic he could brew.

He chuckled at that, amused that nature not man still offered the best remedies. We are still learning, he mused, and we still have so much to learn. His fingers finding the links of his chain that he had forged as a young man during his days in the Citadel.

Uthor thought fondly of his time at the Citadel, the center of learning, of Oldtown and the exotic wonders that could be found, or at the Quill and Tankard where he and his friends went to debate or celebrate their studies and accomplishments. For more than twenty years, the Citadel and Oldtown had been all he needed, content to stay and study, and live his life out as an acolyte without need of a chain to prove his worth or intelligence.

Then the Rebellion happened, a turning point that shifted his goals and redirected his life from content acolyte to determined maester. Shattering the idyllic bubble, he had built, with news of terror and death, battles and butchery that made the Seven Kingdoms bleed in a way it had not seen in generations.

How could he call himself a learned man and sit idly by when the people suffered? His fingers brushing against the silver link in his chain, the one he forged to signify his knowledge in healing, medicine, and the ways of the human body. The catalyst of his change and what pulled him away from Oldtown, the home he knew for so long and into the ranks of the maesters and then into the service of the Dreadfort once the war was over.

What a long way I've come, now here he stood atop the walls of the Dreadfort, the northern castle he had called come for nearly twenty years. I will be fortunate if I reach twenty years, a sad, disquieting thought that poked through his peaceful reflection.

May they send someone quickly, he thought, so that I have strength and time enough to groom him to prepare him for life not just in the Dreadfort, but of the north. Since most men of their order hailed from the south, and were ignorant and sadly often arrogant when it came to the largest of the Seven Kingdoms.

A twinge of pain came from within his stomach, as if it was pinched and chewed on by some small, nasty beast, and he grasped the stone merlon in front of him to keep his balance as the pain flared and gnawed at him. His grip on the merlon made his knuckles white, and he clenched his teeth to keep the scream at bay, before it diminished. He let out a long and shaky sigh while his breathing remained haggard, his heartbeat erratic.

He was lucky, that pain had been weak and fleeting, other bouts that had plagued him these last weeks could last longer and hurt far more than the one episode he just endured. He would have to make a note of it in his papers, the intensity of the pain and of how long it lingered before subsiding.

Uthor had informed Lord Bolton about his ailment earlier in the day when it became clear it wasn't a passing sickness, and what his fate would be from it. With the Lord of the Dreadfort's permission, he sent said raven to the Citadel to send a new maester to help ease the burden from him and to prepare to take over the duties that have been his these many years.

"Maester Uthor?" A voice came from within his tower, a few seconds later, a boy appeared at the open door. A boy of ten and one, Will, the son of Beron, the Dreadfort's cook. Will, however had dreams of wielding swords not knives, and wanting to serve lords with his shield, and not with a bowl and spoon.

"Yes, Will?" His voice sounded strain to his ears, and he wasn't surprised that Will had been able to pick on it, too. The boy was perceptive and had a sharp mind. Uthor thought he had the potential to forge his own links at the Citadel if the boy put his mind to it.

Uthor had taken the boy, a few months back after he showed an interest in reading. He had done so only after consulting with the boy's father and then Lord Bolton. The former seemed puzzled about his son's interest, but approved of it, only after being reassured by Uthor that it would be free. The latter had deliberated it in that quiet, eerie manner of his before giving his assent but only if it didn't interfere with Uthor's duties to Lord Bolton and the Dreadfort.

The timing had been a blessing, as Uthor found his energy and strength draining, it was appreciated at having more helpful hands at his disposal. Work that Will didn't seem to mind. He enjoyed feeding the ravens, but not so much scrubbing their cages of their droppings, but he did it still without complaint.

"Did you send the raven?"

"I did," he answered, realizing he was still clutching the merlon as if it was the only thing that was keeping him from falling. He released his grip of it, and took a step back, aware of Will's watchful eyes.

"I thought I was gonna write it?" He frowned, "To work on my letters."

"There will be other letters for you to write," Uthor assured him, sensing the boy's disappointment. "Besides, tonight, I think we should work on your reading." The boy's penmanship was poor, and he didn't think he had the patience or the energy to decipher the boy's scribbling this night.

"Can I pick it?" He perked up.

Uthor chuckled, "To start," He already had an idea of what letters the boy would want to read.

"Let me help you, m'lord," Will appeared at Uthor's elbow.

"I told you, Will, I am no lord," Though he didn't resist the help, slinging his arm over the boy's shoulder before slowly putting some weight off his tired legs. Will's knees shook for a second as they adjusted to the weight, before he moved forward to help lead Uthor back to his tower.

"Sorry, m'-I mean Maester," Will's cheeks flushed, at the constant slip he continued to show when it came to trying to serve and show proper respect to Uthor.

Uthor took to his seat with a grateful sigh, turning in his chair to see the numerous letters spread out on his desk.

"Can it be the one from Lord Domeric?" Will asked, trying, but failing to hide his eagerness, "About his accomplishments in the Tourney of the Hand."

Uthor gave the boy smile, his suspicions confirmed on what he would chose. He then grabbed said letter and beckoned Will closer so that he could read it beside him.

"Maester," The all too chilly and familiar voice of Lord Roose Bolton immediately brought Uthor to stand and to turn to see the Lord of the Dreadfort was standing off to the side, causing the maester to wonder had he just arrived or had he been waiting.

"M'lord," Will bowed quickly.

"Lord Bolton, what is it that you need?" Uthor bowed his head.

"Your time."

"You have it, my lord," Uthor replied, "I serve the Dreadfort and its Lord," he then turned to Will giving him an apologetic look. "Your session will have to wait."

Will bobbed his head, eyes darting around the room, clearly uncomfortable at being in the presence of Lord Bolton. "M'lord," with another bow, Will excused himself from the tower.

"Beron is a good father, and a loyal servant to your household," Uthor found himself saying after watching how Lord Bolton was looking at the boy with an amused glint in his eyes as he shuffled off.

"As is expected from anyone who dwells in this castle and pledges their service to me," Lord Bolton noted. The Lord of the Dreadfort was dressed in dark ringmail even within the protection of his formidable castle, a pale red cloak was pinned at his collar with a flayed man brooch.

"I didn't come here to discuss servants," Lord Bolton stepped out of Uthor's office and onto the perch.

"Of course, my lord," Uthor followed him out. "How may I serve?"

Lord Bolton's hands were resting on the merlons of the ramparts, his pale eyes reflective as they gazed down on the Weeping Water that flowed below them. "A betrothal," he answered softly, "I need your counsel for a betrothal."

"A betrothal?" Uthor parroted, unable to hide his surprise at this unexpected request from the Lord of the Dreadfort.

"Yes," he confirmed, "It is for me."

This was the first time he had ever spoken of a betrothal for himself since he buried his previous wife in the Dreadfort crypts more than ten years ago. However, Uthor put that aside, knowing he still hadn't answered him, which prompted him to speak the first suggestion that came to him. "There is Lord Cerwyn's daughter."

"Yes," a contemplative expression covered his face, "an older maid, but Castle Cerwyn is not far from Winterfell," he smiled at that.

"Lord Frey has also sent ravens in the past to lords," Uthor pointed out, "Offering his daughter or granddaughter's weight in dowry."

A soft chuckle escaped Lord Bolton, "That could provide me a plump wife, and a tidy sum." His fingers scratched his clean-shaven face, "The Freys are powerful, but greedy," His face conveyed his dislike of that last trait. "They could try to supplant Domeric with any get that I'd have with Lady Frey." His jaw tightened. "I will not have that. The Dreadfort is Domeric's, and it shall pass to the son he has with Lady Sansa."

"As it should be," Uthor voiced his approval.

"Shall I contact Lord Cerwyn then, my lord?"

"I want a list first," Lord Bolton decided, after taking a few seconds to consider it, "of potential brides."

"Of what kingdoms, my lord?"

"The North, Riverlands, and the Vale."

"Very well, you will have it when you break your fast in the morning, my lord," Uthor replied, "If that suits you?"

He nodded, "It does."

With that, the Lord of the Dreadfort left, leaving Uthor to wonder what could've happened to convince Lord Bolton to marry again.

\-----------------------

"We should've heard something by now."

The next morning brought the unannounced visit of Barbrey Dustin, Lady of Barrowton, arriving with a small retinue of men-at-arms.

Uthor sat quietly in Lord Bolton's solar, as he broke his fast with the Lord of the Dreadfort, and Lady Dustin. The former not outwardly bothered at the unexpected visit of his good-sister, he welcomed her in his courtyard with courtesy, offering her a roof, and bread and salt before having her led to his solar while her men-at-arms were provided their rooms and food.

Uthor ate tentatively from his plate, not wanting to upset his ailing stomach. Sleep had been difficult for him due to the lingering pain from his body and the distraction of his mind with his thoughts drifting on the unforeseen intentions by Lord Bolton to remarry. A choice that had surprised and confused the maester, having him trying to consider a reason for such an unanticipated move by Roose Bolton.

Regardless, of his confusion on the change of heart by Lord Bolton, it still fell on Uthor to find suitable brides for the Lord of the Dreadfort. After more than two hours by the candlelight, he put together his list for Roose Bolton to go over. Said list seemed all but forgotten now with the presence of Lady Dustin. Even with her arrival, Uthor couldn't shake his attention on Lord Bolton's decision. 

"Patience," Roose's quiet voice was still commanding enough to pull Uthor out of his thoughts and back onto the company around the small table within Lord Bolton's solar. "It is a long way between White Harbor and the capital, even by sea."

Lady Dustin didn't look placated. "Are we certain he left the capital?"

"Yes," Roose answered calmly, sounding more amused than annoyed at Lady Dustin's questions, "He and the Lady Sansa are no longer guests of the royal family." His quiet voice stressing the reminder of the ignored betrothed to Domeric Bolton she had chosen to leave out.

A frown touched Barbrey's lips at the mention of Lord Stark's eldest daughter before she hid away her dislike for the Lord Paramount of the North and his family. A peculiar trait that Uthor had slowly picked up on over the years in his service of Lord Bolton, noting a tone there or an expression here, and with what he already knew of her former husband and his death, the pieces had come to him eventually.

"Dom never should've went to that rat's nest," her face softening at the mention of her nephew before turning to disdain at both his choice and of the capital itself.

"He made the right decision," Lord Bolton was sopping up bacon grease with his bread before taking a small bite. "If he didn't, there was a chance their betrothal could've been broken by the king."

Barbrey didn't try to hide how unaffected she would've been at that prospect. Uthor could recall that the Lady of Barrowton had disliked the idea of her nephew marrying Lord Stark's oldest daughter. She had offered more than a handful of alternatives including daughters from Houses Manderly, Mormont, and Karstark as well as a few southern houses, none of which matched the prestige that House Stark held.

Thankfully, Lord Bolton agreed with Uthor's assessment that House Stark should be their first choice and approach in terms of Domeric's prospects. Support that didn't endear him to the Lady of Barrowton, but that hadn't bothered him since his role was to serve and counsel Lord Bolton not her.

My vow is to the Dreadfort, not Barrowton, the links in his chain jingled softly against one another as he adjusted himself in his seat to try to keep his body from getting too stiff or sore. Due to his interactions with Lady Dustin, he pitied the maester who served Barrowton, to have a lady to serve who seemed to dislike their order and treat them with suspicion at every turn.

May I serve the Dreadfort with all the strength and conviction in my last days as I did in my first days, he quietly hoped. Time, I will use to find a new bride for Lord Bolton, assist the new maester that the Citadel brings, and hope to see the marriage of Domeric and the Lady Sansa. A young man who he was privileged to watch grow up, eager in his studies, polite and quiet in his demeanor, and a gifted rider. Even when he left the Dreadfort, Uthor corresponded with the young man to discuss books to read, the histories of Westeros and Essos, horses, and other subjects.

The Dreadfort and House Bolton will thrive under his guidance with Lady Sansa at his side, and knowing that truth brought comfort to the dying maester to know the castle he served for so long would be in such capable hands long after he departed from this world.

"Enough," Roose chided his good sister on her thoughts and feelings towards the Starks, "Your selfish grievances and petty gripes will not be allowed to undo my work." He ignored her scowling, "The match with Lady Sansa is the best one a Lord of the Dreadfort has had in many generations." He raised his glass filled with hippocras, "Mayhaps, even ever." He took a sip, "The key to Winterfell."

"A key?" She scoffed, unimpressed by his machinations or his intentions, "Stark's oldest son is betrothed to a princess."

He smiled, "A princess but mayhaps, something else," he remarked vaguely, "A betrothal that could help not harm our cause."

She frowned, brows furrowed, trying to decipher the meaning behind his statement.

Uthor too didn't understand what his lord was implying at how the marriage between princess Myrcella and the heir Robb Stark could help his son and progeny's future claim to Winterfell.

"What of the bastard?" Lady Dustin never shied away from either her opinion or subject she wanted to speak, "I believe it's time to put the mad dog down."

"Do you?" His pale eyes on her, his voice soft, but the challenge behind his words was clear.

She met his stare, dark eyes unflinching, "I do," she took a bite of her cut up eggs while she kept her eyes on him, "He is a threat to Domeric, and I will not allow it." She used her knife to cut up some more. "My nephew will rule the Dreadfort and no bastard will deny him his birthright."

Roose's lips twitched as if amused at a joke and not the unspoken threat given to him by Barbrey beneath his roof, "You do not have to worry about Ramsay," Roose picked up his cup, swirled it in his hands before adding, "He's dead."

"What?" Lady Dustin unable to hide her gaping response to such a revelation.

Uthor felt his brows climb in disbelief. That is why he sought a bride, the pieces coming together for him, because the spare was dead. A statement that brought a feeling of relief to swell within, he even took to his drink, to commemorate the good news. An ill notion to celebrate the demise of another, but Ramsay Snow was not one to elicit pity or grief, and Uthor found his ale tasted better now with such sweet news.

"The Bolton Bastard," Roose mused, as if Lady Dustin hadn't asked him anything, "He was of my blood, but he will not be mourned or missed."

"For good reason," Lady Dustin didn't seem to care about Lord Bolton's musings about his bastard and didn't shy away from being pleased that he was dead. "The boy was a menace and a monster," she sniffed, "He should've been put down a long time ago."

Uthor found himself at one of the rare times he agreed with the Lady of Barrowton in terms of their shared dislike of Ramsay Snow, and of their advice on having him sent to the Wall or for an accident to be arranged to have him removed as a potential threat to Domeric's inheritance. Such callous thinking in regards of a man's life would've shocked his brethren in Old Town leading to scolding and dismay, but they didn't know the man, they didn't know the stories of Ramsay Snow.

"A fate he has earned," Roose shrugged, uncaring about the death of his bastard son, "And was expected," he sipped hippocras, "Tainted blood flowed in his veins, giving him delusions of titles beyond his birth. He saw himself a smart and cunning man," his lips twitched, amusement not grief coloring his tone in reflection of his dead son, "But he was a fool, and no man can defy their nature."

He then went to his pocket and pulled out something before placing it on the table-a ring, it was partly burned, and dirtied, but even in the dim light, Uthor could see the infamous flayed man that had been etched onto the ring. He understood the significance of this small item at once. It had belonged to Ramsay Snow.

The sight of the ring brought a feral smile to Lady Dustin's face, savoring the truth of the bastard's death, she took to her wineglass. Uthor noticed her dark eyes never looked away from the ring as she drank deep from her glass, and he had no doubt, that she'd have more to rejoice in the death of the Bolton bastard, with the threat he posed to her nephew's life and inheritance finally gone.

Domeric is safe, Uthor was thankful, The Dreadfort is his, the future of House Bolton is secure.

\-------------------

Uthor stood quietly watching as Lord Bolton broke the Stark seal from the letter before reading it.

He had been tending to his books when the raven arrived, cawing as it landed, demanding to be noticed and fed. Believing the letter to be from Castle Cerwyn regarding their interest in a potential betrothal between Lord Bolton and Lady Jonelle Cerwyn. He had been quite surprised at seeing the running direwolf impressed into the grey wax. With as much haste as he could give, he went to deliver the message to the Lord of the Dreadfort, finding him in his solar.

"The Pup is calling his banners," Bolton chuckled, "Bolder than I expected." He folded the letter before putting it down, "Send for Steelshanks," he instructed a servant, who had been standing by the door, the servant responded with a bow and then left.

"Is it war that he wants?" Uthor couldn't believe it. The last two times the banners of the North had been called had been for that very purpose. Once against the Targaryens and later the Greyjoys.

"His mother's lands are being ravaged," Roose said mildly, "While his father wastes away in a cell in the Red Keep." With a flick of his hand, a servant came forward to pour a pitcher of hippocras into his waiting glass. "This is all," he paused to sip, "unexpected." When he lowered the glass, a frown was on his lips.

The news from the south was disconcerting. The pillaging in the Riverlands, Lord Stark's arrest, and the Westerlands marching under Lord Tywin Lannister. All of these moves in the south had upended Lord Bolton's carefully construed plans for his family and the north. Uthor knew how diligent his lord had been in putting these plans in motion, but he was confident that Lord Bolton would adjust and react accordingly in keeping his dream of a union between Winterfell and Dreadfort from being dashed before it could truly form.

"To do nothing would be folly," Lord Bolton chided Uthor, "For the pup to fret behind his walls while his father languishes in prison and the Riverlands burn would sever any hope the boy would have of ruling the north."

"You wanted to see me, Lord Bolton?"

Both men turned to see Walton standing in the doorway, known as Steelshanks due to the steel greaves he wore over his long legs. Tall and strong, he had brown hair that fell just above his shoulders, an equally colored beard that covered his face. In talking of him, Lord Bolton had said he was 'a soldier of iron loyalty.'

"Yes," Lord Bolton answered, "Robb Stark has called his banners," pointing to the proof, the open letter with the broken Stark seal, "And we will answer the call."

An answer that Robb Stark will be thankful for, Uthor thought, few houses could call more men then House Bolton. A reason why they had been the strongest rival to the Stark's dominion over the north. Not to mention their recent ties to Houses Ryswell and Dustin now gave them the largest number of men that any northern family could rally that wasn't named Stark.

Now the Boltons have become one of the Stark's strongest backers, Uthor mused. He had no doubt that Lords Bolton and Ryswell, and even Lady Dustin would press for that agreement to be a consummated marriage sooner rather than later now that their numbers would be heavily needed for this march south against the Lannisters.

"What will you have of me, my lord?"

"You will oversee the preparations as our levies trickle into the Dreadfort, and to make certain the forces will be ready to march."

"I will see to it." He served as a captain for Bolton, nothing more, but if he was surprised or overwhelmed by this task, he hid it well, beneath a brown beard and a stoic demeanor.

"In two days' time, you will take a hundred men and you will lead them to White Harbor," Bolton's whispery voice commanded, "There, my son will relieve you. We will regroup with you at Moat Cailin."

"I shall not fail you, my lord."

"Good," Bolton nodded, "You are dismissed." His pale eyes watched him leave before they turned to regard Uthor. "It seems we must be hasty, Maester. We have a wolf to save."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more thanks for all of the supportive and encouraging feedback. It's awesome to read. Hopefully, this will be the chapter that pushes the comments to 200 or more. 
> 
> Thanks for reading,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	37. Arya

"What do you see?"

"Nothing," Arya muttered, frustrated. In all that time she's had her eyes closed all she saw was darkness. 

Alysane chuckled, "Did you think this was going to be easy?"

"No," Arya bit down so as to not give a more snappish response that threatened to slip from her growing impatience. She squirmed where she sat, bothered by the cold and dampness that was seeping into her breeches from the muddy ground. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel Alysane Mormont smiling at her from where she was standing behind Arya.

"This is stupid," Arya huffed, having enough of her time wasted. She could be with Dacey, learning more about fighting and scouting or sparring with Lyanna or practicing shooting arrows with Jory. Instead, she was here, and she found herself hating it.

Arya blinked to see the eyes of the heart tree staring down at her, resembling slits of blood with a mouth carved as if crying out in rage. Daylight splintered down to shower her in light, slipping through the tall branches of oak and pine that made up the Godswood of Mormont Keep.

"I didn't tell you to open your eyes," Alysane chided.

"I can't see anything!" Arya complained, it's stupid, she wanted to add, and I feel stupid. She turned her head to see Alysane Mormont didn't look insulted or annoyed at Arya's take on her lesson instead Lady Mormont's second oldest daughter was regarding her with a smile and an amused glint in her eyes.

"You whine just like my boy when he wants some milk," she laughed.

"I do not," Arya protested, face scrunching up in defiance. Only after the words were out did she realize her petulant answer only confirmed what Alysane was referring to in terms of her behavior. "I just have better things to be doing." Frustration roiling in her tummy at how little she had been able to accomplish during the lesson.

"You want instant gratification," Alysane clicked her tongue, "Skin changing is like any other skill, archery, or swordplay, in that it requires some practice to properly wield it. You have the gift to use it, but that isn't enough," she crossed her thick arms over her chest. "If you ever want to control it you need patience and then once you do, you'll be able to slip into your wolf without struggle or effort."

"I'm not getting anywhere," Arya pointed out. The disappointment tasted bitter in her mouth. "It only works when I'm sleeping."

Her wolf dreams, that was what she called them, allowing her to see through the eyes of her direwolf, Nymeria. Then, it was easy, she was Nymeria, she hunted and roamed the dark forest of Bear Island, but when she woke, she was back to Arya. Her attempts to duplicate that success while she was awake were failing miserably.

"I don't want to do this," a cold breeze trickled through the Godswood causing the branches to sway, and her hair to be tousled to fall over her face. Arya pushed her hair to the side, feeling goosepimples form on her arm and the back of her neck.

"You lie."

Arya frowned. "No, I don't." She stood up, "I want to be a warrior not a warg." She brushed the dirt and leaves from her breeches.

"I knew you were a warg the moment I saw you with your direwolf," Alysane walked past her, completely ignoring Arya's previous statement. "And stopping your training won't stop you from being one, it'll just hurt you. We must always embrace what we are. Never shy away from that or you deny yourself a source of strength."

She had moved to stand beside the weirwood tree so that she was facing Arya. "Your direwolf is a part of you," her calloused hands touched the pale bark of the weirwood tree, "the gods blessed you and your family with the direwolves. You've formed bonds with them so strong that not even death can break it."

That got Arya's attention. "What do you mean?"

"A second life," She revealed quietly, "A means for a warg to live on even after death has come for our human bodies," she explained, "living on inside the animal the warg controls. A simpler life where the memories of your past life will slowly fade, until soon only the beast remains," her eyes distant, "A cruel taste of immortality, but still a taste that only wargs can take."

Live on as Nymeria? Arya wondered at the idea that Alysane presented, finding it grim, but even still, she couldn't deny the appeal of it that tugged at her. At the chance it gave her, at the promise of freedom that would be hers.

"My mother told us when we were younger that some of the bears that live on this island are in fact ancestors of ours," Alysane's words broke Arya's thoughts on her potential second life with Nymeria to see amusement flickering in Mormont's eyes at the tales of her youth, "who chose to live a second life."

"What about you?" Arya found herself asking, "Do you have a bear?"

"Of course, I do," Alysane confirmed, "how do you think I got my two cubs?"

Arya scrunched her face in confusion trying to figure out what it was she was referring, but that was interrupted by Alysane's hoarse laughter.

"Best not to have your mind wander in such lewd directions," Alysane winked at her, "Wouldn't want to make your septa blush if you were to repeat these stories to her."

That thought caused Arya to smile before chuckling, unable to relish the image it conjured of a scandalized Septa Mordane, who thought Arya was already unladylike before she went to Bear Island. Wait until she sees me when I return, that only made her smile widen.

"I'll continue," Arya told Alysane who took the decision with a nod of approval. In truth Arya had no intention of quitting for good. She just wanted a break was all.

"Now, let us start over," Alysane advised, pointing to the ground.

Arya bit back the sigh, her legs were sore and she was getting cold, but still obeyed. She sat back onto the wet ground and closed her eyes.

"Breathe," Alysane told her, "Just breathe, calm, steady breaths."

Arya did so, trying to ignore the cold that was nipping at her skin or the dampness that seeped into her clothes.

"That's right," Alysane voiced her approval, "like you're in bed and getting ready for sleep."

Nothing, Arya wanted to growl in frustration, her breathing was calm, but she felt nothing, saw nothing. The soreness in her legs was bothering her as she tried to adjust her sitting position while she shuddered at the cold that was encroaching upon her.

I can escape this, Arya realized, its Nymeria, she thought, if she wanted to be warm she needed to be with her direwolf beneath that thick, warm coat of fur. How can I be sore if I'm running and hunting instead of sitting?

"This connection with Nymeria is new, but you're closeness to her should make it easy to bond with," Alysane's voice sounded distant, as if there was a growing space breaching between them within the Godswood, "Slipping into your direwolf should come as easy and natural to you as sliding into your worn boots."

Slipping into boots, Arya focused on that, forgoing her old approach of hands grasping in darkness, struggling to grip something, she couldn't see. Now, she focused on those words, picturing it in her mind, and controlling her breathing, it's not my boots I'm slipping into but Nymeria. This was her focus, repeating into her mind over and over until it fell in rhythm with her breathing.

Suddenly, in front of her there was a flicker of light, the tingling feeling of triumph flowed through her, but it wasn't enough. She hadn't accomplished anything yet, Arya pushed down on celebrating and instead focused her effort onto the light.

It was like looking in a keyhole, she realized,only seeing glimpses of what lay beyond the light. Alysane's voice grew fainter and fainter, but Arya's determination to see more only grew. She focused more and more on the light out of reach, but it was working, as it got larger until it was all Arya could see.

Out of the darkness and into the sun, she looked around to see it wasn't the Godswood but the forest of Bear Island.

Scents followed sight, dozens of them and she recognized all of them, mud, pine, oak, swirling in the winds, with the scattering of animals-birds, beavers, rabbits, she smelled them all. No longer cold or sore, she sprinted on her four legs, yipping in excitement as she splashed across a stream, startling a pair of birds who took flight, chirping their disapproval after taking to the skies and out of reach from retaliation.

She looked down onto the clear waters of the stream where the ripples were dissipating from where she had run through the water. Until the waters returned allowing her to use it as a mirror and staring back at her wasn't Arya Stark, but Nymeria, dark golden eyes and matted grey fur. Cocking her head to the side, the reflection of Nymeria mirrored the movement, and in that moment of triumph, she drew back her head and howled.

A tug followed, rudely pulling her away like a fish caught on a line, with a gasp and a blink, Arya found herself once more in the Godswood. She was breathing heavily as if she had just finished an exhausting sparring bout, and her heartbeat was thundering in her chest. Nymeria's howl echoed in the distant, and it made Arya smile even as she tried to regain her breathing and calm the adrenaline she felt coursing through her blood.

"I did it!" Arya exclaimed in between breaths.

"Well done, pup," Alysane patted her shoulder. "The experience will only get easier and in time it'll be you who decides when to end it, but not yet," she offered a hand to pull Arya up which she took, getting to her feet.

"What do you mean?" By returning, Arya was back to being cold with damp feet, and sore legs.

"You're taking your first steps," Alysane told her, "Like a toddler you will stumble by which your time will abruptly end and you'll be pulled back." Alysane gestured for Arya to follow, as the two made their way out of the Godswood. "And like when a child learns to walk without falling you will learn to warg without it ending so suddenly."

Before Arya could respond to how she couldn't wait to get there, a Mormont guard was hastily approaching them.

"Lady Arya," The guard was a woman, short and thick. She had the Mormont Bear emblazoned on her armor. She bowed her head, when they stopped. "Lady Mormont needs to speak to you at once."

"Best you go, Pup," Alysane encouraged, "It isn't wise to make a Mormont woman wait."

"What do you mean?" Arya asked. "What's going on?"

"A raven arrived," the guard answered, "From Winterfell," eyes flickered not meeting Arya's face. "T-that's all I-I know."

In the distance, Nymeria howled, and upon hearing it, Arya didn't feel her earlier happiness. No, this sounded different, it was mournful.

Dark wings, dark words, fear clung to her that was colder than any winter chill. With that Arya ran to find Lady Mormont and prayed the old adage was wrong.

\-------------------

WHACK

Arya's axe hit the practice dummy across the chest, pushing out straw due to the impact of the blow. A thrum went up her arm, but she ignored it, letting out a tired breath. She had gone to the practice yard as soon as Lady Mormont was done with her, and Arya was thankful that it was empty. She didn't want to deal with people right now. She couldn't be polite. Not here, not now, not after what had happened to her father.

She felt tears prickle at her eyes when images of her father being arrested and detained came to her mind's eye. Arya scrubbed them away, head darting left and right to make sure no one saw her, or the tears. Satisfied, that she was still alone, her eyes rested on the empty face of the dummy that was staring at her, but then another face flickered before her. It was the Crown Prince.

The image was enough for Arya to raise her axe and with a cry she hit the dummy again. This time the flat of the blade smashing across the dummy's face. A feeling of satisfaction went through her when the blow from the axe brought the face to swivel, snapping at the base, causing the head to hang limply to the side.

Robb's letter was fresh in her mind. His assurances were what she expected from her older brother who always did his best to look after them. It wasn't all he did, she knew, it was also when he would turn a blind eye towards her more mischievous or martial hobbies. He'd wink at her and smile, and pretend not to notice what it was she was or was about to do.

The memory made her sniffle, but thankfully no tears followed.

"Nymeria," Arya looked to see her direwolf was pawing at one of the fallen practice dummies, but she looked up at the sound of her name.

"We're going to see Robb, and Bran, and Rickon," Arya listed the names quietly, Nymeria perked at them, as if understanding that it meant she'd be seeing her littermates again.

"But not father." Arya bit her lip, pushing away the images of her father in a cell that wormed its way into her mind.

Anger burned in her tummy, and she turned towards the dummy once more, taking a swing but in her anger, it wasn't as poised but the tip of the blade still connected with the dummy's face just below the chin and she had put enough force behind it to knock it clean off. The head fell a few feet from the dummy, rolling on the ground before it stopped.

Nymeria pounced on it, clawing and gnawing at the head and as Arya watched, imagining it was Joffrey's or the Queen's the one's responsible for arresting father, feeling a small smile on her lips at the thought.

Dropping her axe, Arya let out a breath, slumping forward, as her careless swings with the axe were catching up to her. She felt the blisters on her fingers and the tightness in her arm. She put her hands on her knees to regain her breath.

They'll pay for this, she prayed, wanting to attack any lion that hurt her father, that hurt her family.

Robb's letter made no mention of Sansa or Domeric. Were they not in the capital with father? She chewed on her bottom lip, had something happened to them? She found herself wondering, had they tried to run or fight back? Were they killed and the Lannisters trying to cover it up?

Drops of water hit the ground and Arya's vision blurred, causing her to realize they were tears. Her fears about the fate of Sansa and Domeric being the catalyst for the wet streaks she felt run down her cheeks. She wiped them away with her hand, trying to push away the idea of something happening to her sister.

Sansa didn't want to go, Arya remembered the day her parents told them. Arya was to head to Bear Island, and Sansa to the capitol. She wouldn't forget the fear that flashed in her sister's eyes or the discomfort that came to her expression at having to go to King's Landing on the behest of the Queen and Prince. The idea of them harming Sansa or worse…

"I'll kill them!" Arya lashed out at the headless dummy with her axe, hitting it again and again, anger and fear churning in her tummy as she struck at it. Her axe cutting up the stitching as straw began pouring out, and piling onto the ground. Arya still didn't stop. She hit it again and again. Before each hit, a flash of the Queen or Joffrey came before her, only intensifying her blows against the dummy. Soon, she was hitting the post that the dummy was tied to. In her blind rage she had cut and sliced the straw opponent until the armor had slid off and only the wooden post remained.

Arya holstered her axe and let out a tired breath. Looking to her side to see Nymeria had stopped chewing on the dummy's head, and was now looking at her with her head tilted to the side.

Suddenly she felt very tired, as if all the energy had been sapped from her body. Her legs swayed beneath her and her arms felt as heavy as stone. Breathing haggardly, Arya fell to the ground, where she rested her elbows on her knees, and her head in her hands.

Feeling foolish, but too tired to move, she sat there on the ground, and found she didn't have the energy to care what any passing servants or guards thought if they were to see her. She wanted to run off to the Godswood or her room. There she could have privacy, close her door, where she could wonder about her father or what had happened to the others. No one would see her tears either.

Sansa, she whispered, protect her and Domeric, hoping she didn't need to be in the Godswood for the Old Gods to hear her prayers, to protect her family. There are no heart trees in the south. The gods are blind down there. A cold voice reminded her, the idea of them being out of the protection from the gods was too much to bear.

More unwelcomed tears filled her eyes. That was when she felt a nudge, followed by a cold press. Arya looked up from where she had buried her face in her hands to see it was Nymeria, whose eyes were shimmering with concern. She licked Arya's tear stained cheeks. She flung her arms around her direwolf, holding her close, but no tears followed.

I am Arya Stark, she remembered, A direwolf of Winterfell, she couldn't forget who she was. Even after everything that was happening to her family. She was still a Stark. She let go of Nymeria and pushed herself to her feet, looking to see if anyone had been watching. It was still empty.

"Come, Nymeria," She beckoned her direwolf to follow her out of the training yard. "We're going home."

\-------------------------------

"You think we'll still continue our training?"

"I don't know," Arya muttered, the last thing she was thinking about was training. She didn't want to train with practice swords against dummies. She wanted to fight. She wanted to punish those who had attacked her family.

It had been only a few days since Arya received a letter from Robb. He was calling on all the banners of the North to rally to Winterfell where he planned on marching them south.

If anyone can save father its Robb, Arya just knew it. We'll be together again, I promise, remembering the last words her oldest brother had told her before she left for Bear Island. Now, here she was returning, but it wasn't supposed to be like this. It was all wrong.

She sat in her chambers packed and ready to return to Winterfell. Her future at Bear Island and her training with Dacey in doubt due to the circumstances that had arisen in the south.

"Don't worry, Arya," Lyanna seemed to sense her distracted thoughts, "They'll pay for this injustice towards your family." The youngest Mormont girl vowed in a solemn tone.

"Aye," Jorelle Mormont entered the room, making her way over towards the bed, sitting at the end of it. "Mother sent me to tell you we're leaving in the morning."

"Good," Arya hated the waiting. Her family was in trouble, and here she was stuck at Bear Island unable to do anything to help them. She had wanted to leave as soon as she got her letter from her brother, but Lady Mormont dismissed that option. Informing her that it took time to raise the levies in Bear Island and to gather supplies and the boats needed to ferry their forces across the water.

"You have all your dresses packed, Jory?" Lyanna teased.

Lady Mormont had decided to take Jorelle and Lyanna with her to Winterfell. Believing it an opportune time for her daughter to meet and interact with her future husband, Cley Cerwyn. When Lyanna had found out that her sister was going, she pleaded to come to, wanting to be there for Arya and her sister, Maege Mormont had relented.

Arya was touched by her friend's insistence to stay together. She found the two Mormont sisters a welcomed reprieve these last few days. Arya knew she was poor company to be with being prickly and blunt, and most of the time shunning interactions when she could, but that hadn't stopped Jory and Lyanna from trying to be with her. Arya was grateful that she'd have their company to rely on when they were at Winterfell.

"Yes," Jory answered, indifferent to her sister's jape, "As well as my knives and my favorite bow, and two quivers worth of arrows."

Lyanna snickered. "I want to see your betrothed's face when he opens your trunk to see that."

Jory sent her sister an innocent look. "I hope he doesn't mind that I brought more knives then dresses." There was a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

"House Cerwyn's words are honed and ready," Lyanna pointed out with a smirk.

Jory nodded, "Exactly," which led to the two sisters giggling.

Arya watched them with a distant smile. Seeing them tease and interact made the pang of homesickness that she felt in her tummy worsen. Soon, I'll be with Bran and Rickon, reminding herself to help stave off the wistfulness of home.

"The lions are fools if they thought the north wouldn't answer this insult," Lyanna's voice broke through Arya's reflection of home and family, apparently the sisters had stopped in their mirthfulness and had begun talking about the news in the south.

Jon's with a lion, last Arya heard of Jon was him departing Winterfell with the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. Where was he now? And with whom? Fear coiled tightly in her tummy at the thought of not knowing where Jon was or worse if he was a prisoner of the Lannisters.

No, if they had Jon, Robb would've told her, Arya reasoned, refusing to believe that Jon was hurt or taken prisoner. He's just a bastard, a cold voice whispered to her mind, the lions wouldn't think twice of hurting him or worse...

He's my brother, Arya snapped back, a Stark just like me.

Nymeria raised her head from where she had been sleeping by the hearth in the room where glowing embers provided light and warmth inside Arya's chambers. Arya pushed herself off the bed going to sit on the ground beside her beloved direwolf. Nymeria welcomed her with a flick of her tail and a lick to her cheek before settling her large head on Arya's lap.

The wolves are scattered, she looked down on her direwolf, beginning to scratch under her ear which Nymeria always enjoyed. Father's in a cell, and no one knows where Sansa or Jon or Domeric are. They're all alone, Arya realized, a cold finger of trepidation touched her spine, the lone wolf dies…

"Arya?"

"Hmm?" She blinked, shaken from her dark thoughts to see the two Mormont sisters looking down at her with some concern, since she had been silent for most if not all their conversation. "I'm fine," she lied. But what about my family?

Where are they? Are they safe? Has something happened to them?

"No, you're not," Jorelle cut through Arya's lie without hesitation.

Arya frowned, but she didn't bother to reply. She didn't want to talk about. She didn't want to voice her fears, her concerns. Hearing them out loud would only give them merit.

"We're friends, Arya," Lyanna moved off of the bed before carefully making her way over to where Arya and Nymeria were, the direwolf watching her with mild interest. "We may not be wolves, but we still care for you." She sat on the other side of Arya, "And we're with you."

"Aye," Jory happily agreed.

"Thanks," Arya muttered, finding her throat thick and dry. Looking at the two Mormont sisters who nodded and smiled towards her in encouragement. "I couldn't ask for better ones."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is my poor attempt at trying to explore/explain skinchanging 101. Just my interpretation at how someone could potentially struggle with it in the beginning especially if they haven't come to grips with it. As well as showing how it could be different/more difficult when you're awake and not properly trained.
> 
> Thanks so much for the awesome feedback these last two chapters, really means a lot to read your comments. 
> 
> If anyone's interested I'll be posting another ASOIAF story tonight that explores what if Rhaegar had a younger brother among other changes to the narrative. The story will focus mainly on Houses Targaryen, Lannister, and Martell. If you're curious its called- "A Dragon's Roar," Thanks for the consideration. 
> 
> Until next time, 
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	38. Myrcella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay, my laptop crashed back in December, and only now have been able to get a new one.

"Are you certain about this?"

"Yes," Myrcella mustered what waning patience she had to answer this question from Ser Arys for what felt like the tenth time since she told him of her choice.

"Very well," the Kingsguard knight accepted, "But your mother will not be pleased."

"I'm aware of that," Myrcella dismissed the threat of her mother.

It had been carefully, but quickly put together. Myrcella had instructed a few barrels of ale be brought down to the dungeon as a reward to the guards, turnkeys, and gaoler for their loyal work to the crown. Picking a time when much of the court including her brother and mother were distracted with plans for a coronation and the ceremonies that followed where her presence wouldn't be missed.

The plan so far was met with complete success. Those assigned to the dungeon was already understaffed, key positions never being filled, and now those that were stationed were enjoying complimentary ale. Drinking and toasting to her brother, whom they believed gifted it to them due to his pending coronation. A simple, but believable ruse, she had hoped, and it was working. Even still, they went down the steps of the dungeon, concealed nonetheless to look like servants and with some haste as to not be stopped or bothered before they reached their destination.

The Black cells, Myrcella was determined to see Lord Stark. She owed it to the man, whom her father loved, and who was to be her good father. What sort of person would I be if I did nothing while he suffered? She knew the answer to that question and was determined not to become it. He's been good to me, showing her more kindness then her own mother since he arrived to the capital. If I can return just a portion of it in this one act, I will.

Ser Arys was not alone in his reservations or in her company, Lord Commander Barristan walked with her, and though he did not say it, she knew he too disagreed with this plan. She looked to her left where Ser Barristan walked beside her. He didn't look like the most famous swordsman in all of Westeros in plain clothes, but an old servant. That any guard or servant would walk past without second thought or suspicion.

He follows me out of loyalty, she knew, and guilt, from unable to save her father against the boar.

When it had been time to speak her plan to them, she knew they'd be against it, but she would see it through despite their judgment. She was relieved to see that they did not inform her mother or her brother about it.

The way I see it, princess, Ser Barristan had said, is a princess doing charity to bless her people in the Light of the Seven and tending to the man who is to be her good father.

She had smiled then at his words knowing it meant she had his support. Ser Arys, her sworn shield followed his Lord Commander's example.

Her thoughts interrupted as they passed a pair of turnkeys with horns of ale in their hands, drinking to Joffrey's health, they didn't spare them a look as they went down the flight of stairs that would take them to the third floor and their destination-The Black Cells.

The infamous level of the Red Keep. This was where the vilest and dangerous criminals were sent. The light which had already been poor as they made their descent was even worse now, dimly lit, she could barely see more than five feet ahead of her.

"Careful," Ser Barristan laid a hand on her arm to stop her movement, "I should go first," he advised, taking a step forward, "Follow my movement."

"Very well," glancing around the weakly lit and foul-smelling area, she felt safer following him. "Ser Arys," she turned to her faithful knight, "you will stay here to alert or deter any intruders."

He looked to Ser Barristan who nodded, "As you command, Princess," He bowed his head and took up a post to stand watch within the shadows.

She and Ser Barristan continued on their way.

This is where my future good father rots, Myrcella smelt excrement among other repulsive odors that made her tummy rumble. She feared she may empty her stomach right there before they reached his cell.

"Halt," A voice called out in front of them. It was harsh and coarse. "Who goes there?"

Oh no! panic seized her at being stopped, having believed they had tricked all of the jailers. We're so close, she could see Lord Stark's cell.

"We've come to see, Lord Stark," Barristan answered, extending his hand which was carrying the torch to see a jailor was staring at them. A portly, unshaven man, with a scarred face, and dark stubble. He was wearing a spiked steel cap, a leather half cape, mail over boiled leather, with a dirk and sword at his waist.

"No visitors," he barked, "Orders from the king."

Her heart sunk at his curt dismissal, she remained behind Barristan, but she noticed his eyes flickering towards her. When their eyes met, she held her breath, hoping he wouldn't recognize her. He lingered on her, searching her face, and in that heartbeat, a flicker of recognition came to Myrcella. I've seen him before, she realized, but where?

"We got different orders," Barristan's voice pulled the gaoler's attention away from her. "The king sent ale to his servants as a show of gratitude for their loyal service."

"How thoughtful of him," The man's eyes were on him. "I've heard of this generous gift."

"Then why haven't you partaken?" Barristan asked, "You wouldn't want to insult our king?"

"No, I would not," he answered slowly, "But nor do I want it known that Lord Stark has had visitors."

"No one will know," Barristan insisted, "No one has seen us."

"Oh?" Amusement spread through his coarse voice, an unfamiliar look passed his expression, she thought it was reflective, but it was hard to tell as the man's face was now partly hidden in shadows and his scars made it even more difficult to decipher.

She wanted to step closer to not only gage his expression, but to study his face which tugged at the back of her mind as if she should know who he was. She got her chance when he bobbed his head forward, his face moved into the light, and in the glow, Myrcella had her answer, giving a gasp when it came to her-"Varys."

Barristan looked bewildered by her gasp and declaration turning from her then to the jailor, who took her word without even a flinch. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard put his hand on the pommel of his sword.

Myrcella waited and watched the gaoler who seemed unphased by the attention or the unspoken threat from Ser Barristan. She was certain the quick minded and cunning Eunuch was considering all his options in the silence that stretched on for heartbeats between them.

"Princess," He inclined his head, his voice no longer coarse or low, but what she recognized from his time in court, "And Ser Barristan," He turned to the knight, "No need for that," he tittered, "We're all friends of King Joffrey, aren't we?"

"Why are you here, Varys?" Myrcella looked at the eunuch she thought she knew, his plump cheeks hidden by some sort of mummery beard and scars, powdered head hidden beneath his spike cap, trading away his silks and lavender scent for a gaoler outfit and cudgel. In seeing him before her, she could only wonder of how many more disguises he had, and how often he used them to sneak about within the Red Keep.

"I could ask you the same thing, Princess," hearing his higher pitched voice coming from the bearded and scarred jailor made for an odd sight. "Coming to see the man who tried to depose your brother and steal his crown?"

"That's not true!" Myrcella hissed, she couldn't believe the accusations against the man who was to be her good father. "Lord Stark loved my father," she argued, "He must have had a reason," she paused, seeing how Varys sent a look of pity, and delivering a gentle, and condescending tsk at her words.

"When I heard of this gift being given to the men of the dungeons, and servants of the crown," Varys smiled through his stubble, "I had to see this extraordinary act of generosity."

Of course, she should've known better then to think she could deceive the lord who was known as the Master of Whisperers. "You are well informed, Lord Varys."

He giggled, bowing low, "I must be, if I want to keep my head, Princess." When he straightened up, his eyes held a hue to them, "Now, what to do about this?"

Myrcella saw though the glint and the casual tone, "A secret for a secret, Lord Varys," She offered, "Mother would be cross with me for sneaking here," she admitted, "But how would she act if she learned of your disguises," Myrcella gestured to the one he was currently in. "She wouldn't be pleased at such deception as well as costing you a certain advantage if enemies were to look more closely at those who they dealt with."

"Well done, Princess," Varys acknowledged, hands clasped together, in front of him, tilting his head to her in deference, "What am I but a spider in the path of a lion?" His voice lilted in amusement.

"Do we have an agreement?"

"Princess," Varys sounded insulted, "I live to serve," he bowed low, "You have your audience with the prisoner and my silence."

"I won't forget this," Myrcella assured him.

"Figures to find a spider in such a dark pit," Barristan muttered, eyes on the retreating Varys who went to the jailor's post.

She pulled on the Lord Commander's arm to get his attention. He turned to look at her, "Stay here."

"Aye, princess," He handed her the bag he had been carrying. "Be quick," he urged her, "We shouldn't dwell here."

"I will be," Myrcella took up the silently offered torch from Barristan and stepped inside the cell. Her heartbeat quickened when she heard the door closed behind her. It's alright, she tried to calm the nervousness that was gnawing in her tummy.

I knew that could happen, she reminded, Barristan is still out there and will open the door when I'm ready. With that, she stepped forward, torch in hand, eyes ahead, she made a conscious effort not to look at the ground. Not wanting to know what it was she was stepping in, and was already prepared to toss and burn everything she was wearing for this visit.

"Who's there?" cried out a voice, rough and cracking.

Myrcella's heart quivered upon hearing the weak voice of Lord Eddard Stark. She moved forward, waving the torch as she went, and it was then that she spotted him, unkept and dirtied. He looked like a criminal or a street urchin and not the man she knew as the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. "It's me, Lord Stark," she answered, her voice pulled his eyes towards her.

He looked at her as if he didn't believe she was there. "Myrcella?" He sounded mystified.

"Yes."

"How did you get here?" He asked, mouth agape, still looking as if he didn't think she was real. "How did V-Rugen," he cleared his throat, changing whatever he was going to say mid-sentence.

"Rugen?" She repeated, before realizing that must be Varys' alias for when he posed as the gaoler for the Black Cells. Judging by his hasty correction, Lord Stark also knew the true identity of his jailer, while also trying to shield the sensitive information from her.

"He let me see you." She put the torch in a holder so she didn't have to hold it. Placing in a spot to the right and above Lord Stark's head, where she got a grisly look at the former Hand of the King. His face was pale, dark rings had formed under his grey eyes, his beard had grown disheveled. He looked flushed in the light, beads of sweat trickling down his brow.

"You shouldn't have come," he told her, "It isn't safe," he shook his head, "If your mother finds out."

"She'll punish me," Myrcella shrugged off his concern, "A few days alone in my room for this act." She looked closer towards him, "A trade I wouldn't hesitate to make," she moved to put a hand on his cheek to confirm her growing fear. His skin was hot to the touch. He had a fever.

"I brought you some things," she wanted to put aside her concern for his poor condition until her eyes settled on his bandaged leg to see the dirt, dried blood that had coated it. It hasn't been cleaned since he was thrown down here, she discovered, believing the condition of his leg was probably the cause of his fever.

What good is a prisoner who dies before judgment? What good is a hostage who cannot be used? The questions came to her mind, hearing them in the voice of her grandfather, the fearsome, Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, and Warden of the West. She hated the callousness in the tone or the words used to describe Lord Stark, but even then, she couldn't deny the wisdom in the observations.

We have a chance for peace, but my brother is too foolish to seize it. Sadly, Myrcella wasn't surprised at her brother's behavior, and not for the first time had she wished the gods had shown better wisdom to have made Tommen, not Joffrey the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

She put aside Lord Stark's poor condition since she could do nothing for him now, and opened her bag to where she could help him. She pulled out a loaf of bread she had gotten from the kitchens.

"I wasn't sure if they were feeding you," handing it to him, seeing the hungry look in his eyes that resembled more wolf than man.

"Why?" Lord Stark asked her, in between large and noisy bites.

"You are to be my good father," She reminded him, "I-I had to do something."

His eyes widened at her answer, and coughing followed, sounding as if he was choking on the food.

"Lord Stark!" Myrcella went to pat his back, fearing she may accidentally kill the man she came to help.

"I'm fine," he coughed, after heaving up part of the bread, "Forgive me," he mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. His sleeve was dirty and grimy, but Myrcella didn't comment on it, nor did she comment on the rancid smell that wafted in the room. Her stomach lurched. "I brought this too," she handed over a waterskin from the bag.

He put the bread in his lap, uncorked the waterskin, and drank greedily from it, water slipped down his cheeks and chin onto his shirt. Watching him drink, she hoped most of it was going to his stomach and not his shirt. After several gulps, he pulled it away, a sigh of relief escaped his wet lips,

"You still shouldn't have come," He grumbled. "I am a traitor, didn't you hear?" There was a dark dry edge to his tone.

She ignored his protests. "I don't believe it," she argued. "My father trusted you." She noticed how his eyes looked down at her words, was it shame that flickered across his tired, dirty face? Remorse? She wasn't certain. "You were deceived," she put forward, trying to find an excuse to justify what had happened. She needed it be something else.

Mother and Joffrey couldn't be right, she wouldn't believe it. The honorable Lord Stark trying to steal the throne? Her father's truest friend who he considered his brother, who had fought together to remove the Targaryens from the crown, would not commit these acts that he was accused of. The man who showed her more kindness and respect than either her mother or her older brother. It would be some cruel jape by the gods that made Joffrey right and Lord Stark wrong.

"Myrcella," he sounded tired, elbows resting on his legs, slouching forward, weary and defeated.

"Have you heard the news?" Myrcella interrupted, not wanting to see him like this, not wanting to focus on his downtrodden demeanor or hear his confession. "Your son is calling the banners of the north."

"Robb?" Ned snapped his head up at that, for the first time in their meeting there was life behind those grey eyes. "He's trying to save me." His tone a mixture of wistfulness and pride.

"It's my fault," Myrcella suddenly confessed, eyes watering, while the cold fingers of guilt clutched her heart.

"What?" He blinked at her in confusion, "No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is," she argued, feeling the tears down her cheeks. "I wrote to him," she hiccupped, "Told him to come to the capital," she bit down a sob, "Bend the knee to my brother," She hated herself every day since she wrote that letter, "They made me," she added, but the excuse sounded hollow to her ears. "I wrote it all the same."

"Hush, child," Lord Stark's voice was soft and calming. His hand reached out to pat her arm, "You are not responsible for this," he squeezed her arm, "Any of this. Robb cares for you, he would know the truth behind your words, and whose voice you really wrote in."

His words were a soothing balm to her nagging guilt that festered in her chest. She wiped away tears, "Thank you, Lord Stark," she felt the words were empty as here he was rotting in a cell because of her family.

"Come on," She urged a wild and sudden idea springing to her mind, "I can get you out of here," She moved to grab his arm. Clinging as desperately to him as she did to the thought that this plan would work.

"No," His voice was firm, "You will not."

His tone punctured her self-induced delusion. Suddenly feeling foolish at her lapse in madness, she dropped her hand from his arm. Embarrassed at her desperation, thinking she could lead Lord Stark out of here like one of the heroes in her stories. Her face burned hot and she dipped her head.

"I will not have you risk your life for mine," His voice softened, "On some well-intentioned, but poorly thought out escape," his eyes met hers, "My choices led me here." He sighed, "But I will not forget this unexpected kindness from you," and for the first time he smiled at her. "Now, go," he turned his side to her, dismissing her, "I do not want to see you here again."

"I'll find away, Lord Stark," she vowed to him, "I'll set this right."

\----------------------

"Dismissed?"

The Princess had elected not to attend her brother's first day of presiding at court. Unsure if she could stomach seeing him atop the Iron Throne, his greedy green eyes, his smug look, with his smirk looking down at all of them. Just the thought of it was enough to make her nauseous. Her decision to not attend had made her mother mad, but that had cooled quickly enough as she was more concerned for Joffrey on this day then any ailment, Myrcella may have had which she had used as her excuse to stay away.

"Aye, Princess," Arys confirmed grimly, "Dismissed."

"H-how?" Myrcella asked, "H-how is that possible?" She knew the history of the Kingsguard well enough to know that it was a sworn brotherhood, with vows that only death could relieve.

"By orders of the King and the Small Council," Arys looked ashen. "They deemed him too old," A flicker of regret came over his face, "And his inability to save King Robert."

What a fine start to kingship you've shown us brother, she thought bitterly, this news confirming her fears in regards to Joffrey's new hold on true power.

"They were unkind," Arys hesitated, posture stiff, face taut, "They mocked him, and I laughed," he spat, mouth twisted, "He was a mentor to me, and I did nothing to defend him." He ducked his head in shame. "I did not mean it," he said more to himself in trying to defend his inaction, "A shame I can never forgive," he shook his head, "I've sullied my cloak." He gripped his milk colored cloak, eyes on it as if expecting dark blemishes to sprout upon the white fabric.

In her mind's eye, all she could see was Ser Barristan being ridiculed and put in disgrace by this unprecedented move by her brother. She pushed those disheartening thoughts away, knowing she needed to guide Arys out of his self induced melancholy.

"You could not have changed my brother's mind," Myrcella tried her best to comfort her knight, "You are of the kingsguard. You do not have a voice to go against the King or the Small Council."

He looked as if her words hadn't been said. Too caught up in his guilt and anger at what he didn't do to listen to her.

Myrcella didn't press her opinion, knowing he was too distracted and determined to stew in his guilt. So she kept her silence, mulling over this unforeseen move. Tommen will have to be comforted, she knew how much her younger brother adored the Lord Commander. This would devastate him.

I didn't even get to say goodbye, tears filled her eyes at the realization. Will I ever see him again? Someone she had known all her life, who was a stable presence which she had relied on, and now he was gone.

Leaving her to now think back at the last time she had been with Ser Barristan. It had been two days ago when she had visited Lord Stark in the Black Cells. Where Varys had discovered them...

That disquieted her. Looking at his dismissal in a new light, and leaving her to wonder if this was her brother's work or someone else's, like a Spider.

A warning to her? She wasn't sure, but regardless it didn't sit well with her. She knew something had to be done before she suspected Varys' role in Ser Barristan's dismissal. The decisions Joffrey were making were disconcerting. And it was clear that her mother wasn't going to do anything to stop him, so Myrcella realized it was falling on her to shield her and Tommen before their brother could ruin them.

That left her wondering what she could do. That was when the idea came to her.

I may not have the power, she thought, but I know who does.


	39. The Keeper

Let this be the end, he thought quietly with a reverence that was more reserved for prayer than idle thought.

Robard was waiting in a secluded spot near a creek. This was a place he was familiar with as it had been used countless times in the past to meet with others who served Lord Bolton. It was close enough to their camp without it being too much of a trek to reach, but far enough as to not have any of the Bastard Boys accidentally stumbling upon them.

At the mention of Ramsay's base, he instinctively found his attention drift in the direction of where the windmill should be seen poking out from the canopy of trees, but there was nothing. The last remnants of Ramsay's old life was nothing more but smoldering ruins which he had decided would serve as his foundation for his plan at making a claim for the Dreadfort.

"Burn it down!" He had demanded, "Burn it all!" His pale eyes gleaming in ecstasy when the windmill was consumed by the flames.

Robard shuttered at the memory as it came back to him, cold and unrelenting. He wrapped his cloak tighter around him trying to combat the chill while the event of what transpired days ago was played back in his mind.

"Mother," Ramsay moved towards her.

"Ramsay," she greeted him, "My boy, my lord," at the second part, she lowered her head. An act that made Ramsay smile.

"Soon, mother," he promised he. "Everything you told me, you promised me. Soon I'll have it all."

"Good," Her eyes glinted. She was hungry for power and wealth, but Robard believed it was revenge she craved most directed towards Lord Bolton for refusing her and her son the comforts of the Dreadfort.

She envisioned a life as a spoiled noblewoman with Ramsay being the key to that life, but instead she got a windmill, a bag of gold, and a servant-Reek. It was clear she thought little of Lord Bolton's generous terms and wanted more for her and her son-bastard or not.

That is why I'm here, he watched the exchange between mother and son in silence with his contempt for them hidden behind a stoic façade and a servant's mentality.

"You deserve it, my boy," She moved her hands to his face. "You will be a great man, a great lord," her fingers cupping his cheeks. "Now tell me, how will it be done?" She was eager for the details.

"With blood," Ramsay promised her.

"Ram-" Her eyes widened, a cry of pain followed.

"Hush, mother," he soothed her, pulling out the bloodied dagger. "Your death is not in vain."

"W-why?" She half choked, half gasped. Her hands were trying to stem the blood from the abdominal wound, rivulets of red ran down her clothes.

His eyes were two pricks of pale ice taking in his wounded and bleeding mother without reaction. "It had to be done." He assured her, "You're part of my old life," he raised the bloodied dagger, pointing it at the windmill, "All of this must be destroyed if I'm to rise up to where I belong."

"T-together," she collapsed onto her knees, "s-suppose to t-together."

Ramsay laughed, a cold, merciless sound. "Stupid woman," he scoffed, "You have no place in the presence of a Lord." He stepped towards her. "But do not worry, mother, I will reclaim the birthright you promised me."

"R-Ramsay, please," she begged, hands drenched red, "m-my boy."

Her pleas fell on deaf ears as Ramsay looked at her with mild disgust, his lip curling, "Put her inside," he ordered, "Goodbye, mother."

Grunt and Reek followed the order without hesitation, grabbing her by the arms and dragging her towards the windmill. The home she shared with her son all his life was now going to serve as her tomb.

She shouted and cried, struggling to break her captor's grip but it was to no avail. When Grunt and Reek exited the house, the latter closed the door, while the former barred it to prevent her from escaping.

Robard watched unmoving, aware and against of the great depravity in Ramsay's plan, but he did nothing to protest or to prevent it. That wasn't his duty. This wasn't his concern.

"Are the other bodies placed?" Ramsay asked.

"Yes, my lord," Reek answered readily, his head bobbing up and down, "Locke got the bodies you requested, just like I promised."

"Good Reek," Ramsay said in a tone one would give to an obedient dog. "This will bring my father's men and get his attention." He sounded pleased and proud of the plan he had formed.

"My lord," Yellow Dick stepped forward with a torch, presenting it to him, Damon and Alyn stood with torches at the ready.

Ramsay took the torch, his fat lips curving upwards, pale eyes glowing from the bright flames. He moved towards the windmill where his dying mother and the corpses were placed. He raised the torch to where it could catch with the hay roof, the embers hungrily took to the hay and wood, and began to spread.

"Burn it down!" He demanded, "Burn it all!"

Damon and Alyn heeded the instructions, using their torches to start the fires at select places where they had collected the materials needed to not only catch the flames but to prolong it. When they did that, they broke the windows and tossed their torches inside.

Cold, piercing screams could be heard from within, Robard flinched at the shrill sound that cut sharper and deeper than any blade. He crossed his arms over his chest as if to stem the icy feeling that swelled in his gut. The screams loud and agonizing made him want to heave, but he bit back any bile that threatened to climb up his throat. He needed to maintain his indifference. He needed to maintain the illusion.

So there he stood, still and silent as the windmill went up in flames and Ramsay's mother was burned alive by her own son.

"We will start anew, boys," Ramsay promised them, unmoved by his mother's screams, "power and wealth will soon be within my grasp." Behind him, his home was engulfed by flames casting him in a fiery glow that was hauntingly terrifying.

Robard shielded his eyes with his hand and turned his head, but the screams could still be heard. Even as they grew fainter. Bile burned his throat, but he pushed it down.

I follow the father not the son, he reminded himself. It is him I cannot fail, he continued. This is his plan and I cannot falter from it.

The sound of footfalls over crumpled leaves pulled Robard out of his memory and back to the present. He moved to block himself from view by standing behind a tree, gazing around it to see if it was whom he was waiting for or an uninvited intruder.

"Bitter," a voice whispered from the darkness.

"Damon," he acknowledged, moving to show himself to his ally. "Did you bring the men?"

"Aye," Damon answered, "Lord Bolton was generous gave us nearly a dozen men," he rolled his eyes. "Probably won't even need half that to get him."

Robard knew he made a good point, most of the men within the Bastard Boys weren't really skilled fighters. They relied on the elements of surprise and savagery to overwhelm those they came across not ability. "Lord Bolton is being cautious." He reminded him.

Damon nodded, "They're in position and awaiting our move."

"Good," He recognized the relief in his tone.

This was it, the end he had dreamed of these past few years as he served the depraved bastard known as Ramsay have it be so close at hand made him both excited and anxious.

"Who's on watch?"

"Grunt," Robard ignored Damon's chuckle at that, "And Yellow Dick."

"How did you slip away?"

"Told Grunt I was taking a shit."

Damon smirked, "That's one way to not get followed."

"Come on," Robard's fingers were resting on the hilt of his dagger, "It's time to end this."

\---------------------------

It's over.

A laugh threatened to burst from his lips, but he restrained himself, remembering where he was-the dungeons of the Dreadfort. Even still the dour atmosphere couldn't chase away the happiness he felt course through him at finally being rid of Ramsay Snow.

No more did he have to serve as Ramsay's keeper. No more did he have to witness the atrocities that Ramsay committed or worse take part of them. He was free.

I'm free, he repeated, feeling a smile on his lips. He was quick to look both ways in the corridor to make sure he was alone in his silent revelry.

Robard still couldn't believe it was over. He had been sur

prised when he had been given his new orders by Lord Bolton in the aftermath of Ramsay's murder of his mother and the burning of the windmill. It seemed after all the killing and the raping, the flaying and the pillaging, it was the kinslaying that stirred Lord Bolton into taking action.

The very deed that Ramsay had wanted to invoke a response from his father this just hadn't been the one he was expecting.

Stupid bastard, Robard wanted to chuckle at that, but he restrained himself.

He had thought himself a skilled and smart man, believing his plan would win him the Dreadfort, by fooling his father and killing his brother. In the end, he had forgotten a simple truth: He was never in control. He had no power only illusions given to him by his father, and once he grew tired of his bastard's schemes, he would end it, which he did, swiftly and brutally.

"Was there any trouble?"

"No, m'lord," The quiet voice of Lord Bolton made Robard bow his head instantly, wiping away his smile in the movement. "Your men were a boon."

"The casualties?"

"None on our side, m'lord, while every one of the Bastard Boys has been accounted for and is dead including this Locke, " Robard informed him. "It was brief," he continued, flashes of the skirmish playing in his head, Grunt and Yellow Dick being the first to be killed, a dagger in the dark one by him the other by Damon.

The others were roused by a dying shout from Dick, Damon had been careless, but even alerted they proved no real threat. Ramsay had challenged him shirtless and with only a dagger, seeing himself as some sort of great warrior. It was more amusing than intimidating, and the duel that followed didn't last long as he defeated the bastard with relative ease.

Robard relished the victory he had over Ramsay, disarming the bastard before watching him be put in irons by Lord Bolton's men. After all this time, after everything he's seen or worse done to have the man responsible and to be the one to beat him, and to stop him. That was a feeling that he would greedily hold onto for as long as he lived.

"Good," Lord Bolton's tone betrayed nothing at being told of his bastard's defeat and capture. "Come," he moved towards the door to the chambers that was holding Ramsay Snow, "I'm curious to see how he's fared."

"Of course, m'lord," Robard made sure not to show his surprise at being included as he followed Lord Bolton into the cell. It was dimly lit, the torches like all of the torches in the Dreadfort were held by skeleton hands, from the bones of previous servants and enemies alike of House Bolton.

Will Ramsay's hands someday be added? He quietly wondered.

A cross was set in the middle of the room, but there was no body attached to it, two guards had been standing just inside the cell at the door, and both had bowed at Lord Bolton's presence. A gaoler was there as well, off to the side, practically out of sight, but he seemed ready and willing to be addressed, but for now he waited in silence.

The room had no furniture, instead of a bed there was a pile of dirty, tangled rags, the smell of excrement hung in the air, and Robard covered his nose to try to fight the pungent odor. Blood stains could be seen splattered on the floor and walls, some dry and faded, but others looked fresh and some so fresh it still looked wet.

It was in the corner where Ramsay was being kept, chains from the wall were latched to his wrists, giving him some movement and ability to walk, but judging by the length of the chain, Robard doubted he could move more than three feet in any direction. He also noted how Lord Bolton had him chained on the opposite side of the room to where the rags on the floor had been. It seemed he wanted no sort of comfort for his bastard son.

"A visitor!" Ramsay's voice was hoarse. He had screamed and shouted for much of the trip back to the Dreadfort filled with anger and indignation at what had transpired to him and his men. He had blustered and cursed, and threatened, but it all had fallen on silence. That had only made him madder and louder.

Lord Bolton ignored his son's greeting. Stopping well away from him, while making no indication to speak, instead settling on studying him silently.

Robard made sure to stay in the shadows so as to not provoke the bastard. He wanted to witness this after everything, and he feared his presence would rouse a reaction from the prisoner so he tried to keep himself hidden from Ramsay

"Do you know where you are?" Lord Bolton finally spoke.

"Father, you've come to check up on me at last," Ramsay answered. "Of course I know where I am," He moved to stand up, the guards shifted as if expecting for the bastard to strike, but Lord Bolton stopped them with a raised hand. A notion that didn't go unnoticed by Ramsay who seemed to take it as a good thing as his smile only widened.

Confinement had only worsened his already ugly appearance. He was dressed in dirty clothes, ripped trousers and a shirt that was torn in a few places. His hair was long, dark and in a tangled mess. Fat and short, he couldn't hide his unenviable traits in his new position as prisoner.

"We stand inside a flaying chamber," he pointed to the cross, "I dreamed of this place," his fingers gently ran down the stoned wall, "I imagined I was here many times when I was with my victims." He licked his lips. "If only you could've seen them, father," his tone filled with longing, "You would've been so pleased," his meaty lips curved upwards, "And so proud." He stood straighter as if trying to look more regal and less hideous. "I followed the tradition of our ancestors. We Boltons have flayed our enemies for a thousand years. It's on our banners."

"My banners not yours," Lord Bolton's soft voice cut in sharply. "You're not a Bolton. You're a Snow."

Ramsay winced at his father's rebuke. He shrunk back, his confidence punctured. His smile disappeared in an instant at the chastisement. He faltered only for a moment, before he regained his poise, "I'm your heir!"

"My heir?" A hint of amusement seeped into his otherwise mild tone. "I have an heir." Lord Bolton stepped towards his prisoner. "A better man than you in every way." His arms behind his back, examining the bastard before him like a farmer would when looking over his livestock.

"A son born of two noble houses." Lord Bolton continued, "Betrothed to Lord Stark's eldest daughter. He will provide me a key to Winterfell," His face remained impassive, "While you have provided me with nothing but headaches."

"I can be that for you!" Ramsay argued. "I know these lands better than he ever will," He boasted, "Lord Stark wants to strengthen ties with our family above all, he would agree to the betrothal with me instead."

A chuckle escaped Lord Bolton's stoic countenance, "You?" He shook his head, "A bastard betrothed to Lord Stark's eldest daughter. What folly is this?" He looked towards Robard, "You were right, his delusions are impressive."

"He isn't worthy of the Dreadfort!" Ramsay all but shouted, moving towards Lord Bolton, chains stopping him well before he could reach him. The irons shook and rattled as Ramsay fought against them.

Lord Bolton didn't reacted at all to his bastard's outburst taking it in quietly and coolly, even as his guards had rushed to put themselves between him and Ramsay. "There is some fight in you." He scratched his chin, "I could've been wrong about you." He admitted. "Release him."

Ramsay's eyes widened in disbelief, before recovering quickly, his meaty lips formed a triumphant smile, a smug look settled over his face.

Robard couldn't believe what he was hearing. This couldn't be, shaking his head in dismay. He stepped forward, "M'lord?" He finally made his presence known ignoring the glare that Ramsay was sending him while the guards moved to unlock the chains.

"Be quiet," he warned him, "Or you shall find yourself in your own cell."

The cold threat by Lord Bolton stymied Robard's protest. Forcing him to watch in quiet disbelief and disgust as Ramsay was unchained.

He's free, Robard couldn't believe it, Lord Bolton is freeing him. His hand twitched at his side, longing to reach for his sword, but only his fear in Lord Bolton halted his movement.

"Where am I going, Father?" Ramsay asked excitedly, "A room fit for your heir?"

"Not to worry, son. You're going where you belong."

That was when the guards grabbed Ramsay by the shoulders. "What's going on?" He demanded. "Unhand me!"

The guards weren't escorting him out of the cell. They were leading him to the cross.

He's playing with him, Robard realized, like a cat with a wounded mouse. It was a game to him, feeling that cold, eerie sensation settle in his stomach whenever he reflected on the sort of man Lord Bolton was.

We're all just pieces to him, to be used, to be discarded. He noticed a flicker of amusement play over Lord Bolton's expression as he watched his son struggle against the guards.

"No!" Ramsay shouted desperately trying to break free. "You can't do this!" He raged, spittle flying, face reddening.

That was when one of the guards punched Ramsay in the gut causing the bastard to bend over in pain. The other guard seized the advantage to put the bastard's arm to the cross.

"I'm your son!"

"Sadly that is something I cannot amend," Lord Bolton admitted wryly just as the guard put a nail to Ramsay's hand before hammering into the wooden cross. "That means it falls on me to impart some important lessons for you to learn."

Ramsay screamed in agony, a high pitched wail that reverberated off the walls. He was half pinned to the cross, hanging limply, trembling. It was easier for the guards to hammer the nail into his other hand. This time the bastard's shouting was more hoarse, but just as chilling. Tears came down his cheeks while the wounds in his hands wept blood, red streaks dripping down his arms.

"Did you truly believe you were in control?" Lord Bolton's quiet voice could be heard over Ramsay's cries of pains as the guards hammered his feet to the cross.

"That you could fool me?" Lord Bolton asked, "That you could kill my son," his usual mild and controlled voice, unexpectedly changed at those last words. "To steal his birthright and claim it as your own. Did you think I'd allow it? Allow you?" He scoffed, "Pathetic."

Ramsay moaned. His chest rising and falling, his breathing grew heavier, his pale eyes were unfocused, his fingers twitching, while a spasm of pain flittered over his face.

"The moment your mother revealed yourself to me," He seized Ramsay's face, twisting it so that he could meet his bastard's eyes. "You've lived only by my mercy." He explained, "And you foolishly threw that away with delusions beyond your blood or your worth."

Seeing him upon the cross, Robard felt no pity stir in his chest, no remorse at seeing the blood or the tears or hearing the cries of pain that Ramsay made. No, he felt a dark sense of satisfaction at seeing the bastard crucified, unable to forget all of the victims he had over the years and the torment he inflicted on so many.

Justice, he thought, hearing Ramsay's groans and watching him struggle against the nails that pinned his flesh into the wood. This is what you deserve, bastard.

He released his son's face, and took a step back, but his eyes remained on Ramsay. "What is the punishment in these lands for besmirching a member of the lord's family, Robard?"

The question caught him off-guard, but he knew the answer readily enough, having served with Grunt these past few years.

"They have their tongue removed, m'lord."

"Indeed they do," Lord Bolton agreed.

The gaoler stepped forward, he had been quiet and out of the way since Ramsay had been brought in, but quickly heeded his master's call. He was a thin man with an unassuming face, and plain features. He was holding the pincers in reverence, a look of yearning in his eyes as he moved the pincers over to the fire to prepare them.

"N-no," Ramsay shook his head. Emerging from his stupor of pain and exhaustion. "Y-you cannot do this!" He thrashed against the nails that pinned him in place, wincing and cursing. "I'm your proper heir!"

"Quiet child," Roose chided him. "I have a proper heir, my son, Domeric. He will rule after me and his children with Lady Sansa will rule after him." He turned to the pincers to see if they were ready. They weren't so he turned back to Ramsay.

"This is what you always wanted," Lord Bolton observed, "A place in the Dreadfort, and now you shall have one for as long as you live." He smiled, "Welcome home, my son."

"F-father, I can serve you," Ramsay insisted, sweat and tears mingled on his cheeks. "I-I-"

"Enough, your voice grows irksome," Lord Bolton interrupted his son's pleas, "But that will be remedied shortly," he chuckled.

"N-no!" Ramsay's strength was draining from him, his protests grew weaker, his tone softer, as his struggle lessened. "You cannot do this!" He hissed, "This wasn't how it was meant to be."

Lord Bolton ignored his son's protests. "Kinslaying is abhorrent to the gods," he observed, "But thankfully, I have found ways around committing said sin."

"It's ready, m'lord."

Lord Bolton nodded and gestured for the gaoler to step forward.

Despite his condition, Ramsay did not make it easy. He struggled against the nails, gasping in pain as they dug deeper into flesh, he writhed and cried out to delay the inevitable punishment that awaited him.

His struggle was all in vain, as the guards properly subdued him.

"Though, this may be our last conversation," Lord Bolton drawled, "Not to worry son, I shall visit you regularly." He revealed, "After all, I have more lessons to teach you and I think for your next one I shall remove your other offending part." He mentioned casually.

Robard looked away at the last possible second just before the guard ripped Ramsay's tongue out of his mouth. The muted shouts of pain that followed were some of the worse that Robard had heard, but for once he realized it was deserved. He looked to see blood pooling out of Ramsay's mouth down onto his chest, trickling rivers of red.

For a second, he thought the action had killed Ramsay, but he saw the bastard stir and realized he must have passed out from the ordeal.

Lord Bolton examined the removed tongue which was still being grasped by the pincers for a few heartbeats, before he turned away. "What happens here shall not leave this room. Am I understood?"

"It won't, m'lord," the gaoler swore, still holding the pincers, blood dripping down from it and pooling onto the floor.

"I will not have his death be premature."

"Not to worry, m'lord," The gaoler assured him, "I can treat him so that he needs no maester." Ramsay's tongue swayed and twitched in the pincers grip, "Just like the others."

"See to it that you do," Lord Bolton dismissed him and the guards with that.

"Robard?"

"You have my word, m'lord," Robard said quickly, his eyes lingering on the bastard's body upon the cross. "Nothing shall be said of this."

"Good," Lord Bolton moved towards the door, "Do you have his ring?"

"Aye, my lord," Robard went into his pocket to get the scorched ring that had the Bolton flayed man emblazoned on it. He stepped forward to present it, bowing his head as he did.

Lord Bolton took it without a word, raising it to the light to examine the ring, before putting it away. "Come, Robard," he ordered, "We have much to discuss including your new role."

"My new role?" Robard repeated before he could stop himself. After all this time with the bastard, he hadn't thought much of a life without serving as Ramsay's keeper. Probably because he had believed that his service would eventually end with his death when it came to putting an end to Ramsay.

"Yes," Lord Bolton's voice didn't convey any annoyance at Robard's question. "You served as a keeper to my bastard son," his pale eyes on Ramsay's form which was nailed to the cross, "I think it is time you attend my son and heir. Allow you to see and serve the future of my family."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, got a new computer, and found the time and inspiration to start writing again.
> 
> Just to clarify in case the end of this chapter wasn't clear enough, but this chapter takes place before Chapter 36 "The Maester,"
> 
> To those who guessed that Ramsay hadn't died and was hiding, well you're correct, but this probably wasn't the way you meant.
> 
> Your reviews served as a great motivation to get me to start writing again after my laptop crashed. Hearing your feedback and knowing you were out there and were interested and wanted to know what happened next really helped me fight through the discouragement that came with having lost all my outlines and partially written chapters. So please don't hesitate to review. It really does help.
> 
> Thanks for the time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	40. Sansa

The rocking of the galley roused her from her dreams.

Sansa blinked in the cramp confines of her cabin aboard the galley, stirring beneath her blankets. She moved to sit up, but the tumbling of the boat beneath her quelled the movement and she returned her head to her pillow.

Just a few more minutes, she yawned, closing her eyes and trying to snatch up the lingering traces of her dream. It seemed to be the same dream she's been having since she left the capital.

She had been on a boat. This boat, she was certain of it, it was evenfall, trying her best to conjure it up from her mind's eye. Those details never changed. She thought it was further proof that it was the same dream, but on repeat.

The dark canvas of the night was illuminated by starlight that shone down on her, as the boat cut through the dark waters like a white knife. But this time Domeric was on deck. He was talking to some the sailors, but when he saw her, he had stopped his conversation and smiled, beckoning her over to him.

No, Sansa rubbed her eyes, wondering if she remembered wrong. That couldn't be right. She bit back a frustrated sigh, and pushed herself up.

Even in sleep she couldn't escape the sea.

Sansa longed for her feet to touch land again. She missed the feel of steady ground beneath her.

How long has it been? She wondered since they she left the capital. Since I left them behind, she choked down the muffled cry that wanted to slip through. Thinking about her father and brother who remained in King's Landing under threat from the Lannisters.

I must be brave, she reminded herself, Father told me to be brave.

Every day she stewed in the guilt of what transpired that led her and Domeric to flee the capital while letting her father and brother remain in the city with the lions circling.

Her tummy churned. The familiar feeling of nausea bubbling, the taste of bile in her throat, the sudden lurching of the ship was enough to make Sansa run for her chamber pot. Emptying her tummy in two painful heaves that brought tears to prick her eyes.

This was her life ever since their ship left the harbor of King's Landing. Sansa rarely left her cabin. The few times she did wander into the sunlight, the rough waves beneath her sent her right back here.

Seasickness, their ship's captain declared, offering remedies to aid in her ailing, but each one proved ineffective.

Wrought with guilt and anxiety, her tummy was a tangled mess, leaving her to languish here, day after day as their ship made the arduous journey to White Harbor.

Letting out a shaky sigh, she didn't let her attention linger on her chamber pot, knowing it would only stir another poor reaction out of her. She used the back of her arm to wipe her mouth and moved backwards until reaching her bed, falling onto it. She looked up at the ceiling, brushing away the corner of her eyes to remove the traces of her tears.

The Old Gods are punishing me, she just knew it. She could sense their disapproval. It wasn't seasickness that plagued her, but their wroth at leaving her family behind.

Family, Duty, Honor, those were her mother's words. The guilt stabbed at her heart like valyrian steel. She hadn't fulfilled them since she left her family behind.

To make her condition worse, for the first time her friendship was strained with Domeric. It wasn't kisses or glances they exchanged, but heated words or bouts of silence. He had been adamant in his decision to leave the city with her, and she refused to see his reasoning behind it. He could dress it up as best he could, but they rang hollow to her.

A part of her longed for them to reconcile. So she could be held in his arms, to exchange such kisses that made her heart soar and tummy flutter. Touches that made her safe and happy, but each time she wanted to reach out to him, to tell her she understood, the words died on her tongue. Images of her father and brother in the Black Cells were conjured in her mind's eye. Instead of apologies being exchanged, a new row would crop up between them, only furthering the divide between the betrothed couple.

She felt new tears swelling in her eyes at everything in her life seemed to be crashing down upon her. Weeks ago, she was with her beloved, laughing and dancing, with her father and brother. They were surrounded by enemies, but they were wolves, and they were safe in their pack. Now, they were alone, cut off from each other, unable to draw strength upon one another.

Her stomach rumbled, a sour sensation dwelling that made her queasiness return.

"Sansa?"

"Yes?" Her voice hoarse and scratchy.

"May I come in?"

She wanted to refuse him. Resigned to what awaited them if she let him in, awkward silences which followed fumbled questions and would eventually lead to heated words.

Her heart ached reflecting on the trials of her strained relationship with the man she loved over these past few days. Did father and mother have days like this? Weeks like this? And if they did, how did they fix it? She wondered, a mess that to her looked unfixable.

I can't ask father, she thought bitterly, having left him in the capital. The reminder brought forth a prickle of annoyance to fan in her heart, directing towards the man who stood outside her door. The man she loved, but yet couldn't stand to be with on this journey.

"Sansa?" She could hear the worry in Domeric's tone from behind the closed door. "Are you well?"

The concern in his voice softened her. Relishing the sound of it, taking comfort in his tone, she put aside the refusal she was so quick to about to give. A response that filled her with shame.

"One second," She told him, knowing she needed to speak up or his worry would only grow in her silence. She pulled herself up, scrambling on her bed as best she could without upsetting her stomach, so as she was leaning against her pillows in a sitting position. Sansa looked down at her modest nightgown, her hand instinctively going through her tussled hair, before realizing it was meaningless, knowing her appearance couldn't be saved so easily.

"Come in."

The door opened, familiar padding could be heard against the wood floor, as Lady jumped onto her bed, right beside Sansa. It was almost as if she could sense the understanding and sympathy that lurked beneath her direwolf's eyes as Lady nestled against her. The direwolf sniffing the air before applying a few quickly placed kisses along the side of Sansa's chin and cheek which brought a smile to her lips as she halfheartedly tried to push Lady away.

"Lady," she hugged her direwolf when Lady finished licking her. Burying her face in Lady's soft, warm fur. While Sansa hadn't taken well to their journey, Lady was thoroughly enjoying it. Basking in the sunlight, smelling the salty air and other exotic scents the open waters had to offer. Her direwolf spent most of her time outside leaving Sansa to remain in the dark-sick and cold.

She held onto her direwolf longer than she should, knowing once she let go she'd need to look at and then speak to Domeric. Hesitance came to her in thinking about interacting with him when it use to bring only excitement and happiness.

"I brought you some water," his voice gentle, concern lingered in his tone.

Sansa summoned what strength she had, and moved away from Lady and look towards him. He stood at the foot of her bed, holding the water.

"Thank you," she moved to get it, a difficult task with Lady nearly melding into her at her side, but she stopped when Domeric held up his free hand.

"Allow me," he moved to hand it to her.

She took it with a thankful nod, bringing it to her chapped lips, she drank greedily from it, the soothing cold water, reprieving her sore throat and restless tummy.

"Easy," Domeric cautioned, eying her with a worried look.

Sansa didn't listen, not removing it until the water was gone. Letting out a contented sigh, she wiped her mouth, and handed it back to him.

"I can get more," he offered.

"No," she stopped him, the water was refreshing, but she didn't want to risk further upsetting her stomach.

The awkward silence ensued as Sansa busied herself by scratching Lady's ear, and for the first time she was able to get a clear look at him despite the poor lighting in her cabin. His clothes looked familiar, the red and black pattern on his tunic, his brown trousers. A nagging feeling at the back of her mind, as if she should recognize what he was wearing, but she knew he wasn't dressed in these clothes for their last meeting together yesterday afternoon.

"Did you wear that before?" Realizing after she spoke how odd and unexpecting her question must have sounded.

"Last night," his look confirming that he found it strange. "After having spilled some of my supper on my shirt," he admitted, "So I changed before I went up on deck to look at the stars."

Her dream, the sudden clarity of the image came forward from her mind's eye gave her no further doubt that she remembered correctly, but questions remained.

Lady stirred at her side, a satisfied whine followed, before she rested her large head on Sansa's lap.

"Sansa," he paused, clumsily trying to put together a sentence that neither seemed able or willing to give since they got on this ship-an apology.

"Don't," she held up her hand, praying he'd listen. She knew no apology was forthcoming, and the attempt of it only led to arguing. "I must look a frightful mess," Sansa attempted levity, hoping to keep the mood light, and for him to stay with her. She brought a hand to gesture at her face, imagining her sickly and pale appearance or her messy hair dirty and matted.

"Never," he assured her. His dark eyes brimming with warmth and sincerity. "You will always be beautiful to me, my lady."

A look that use to make Sansa's tummy tumble and skin shiver whenever she found that gaze upon her. She looked away first, her heart, a gentle flutter beneath her chest, a bit of heat crept in her cheeks, and the beginnings of a smile on her lips.

"My lord!" One of the sailors appeared in the doorway, puncturing the improving mood between the betrothed couple, a feat he looked oblivious at accomplishing, as he continued. "White Harbor is in sight!"

\--------------------------

"Arrested?"

Sansa found herself parroting Lord Manderly's stunning news. It took every ounce of her self-control to remained poised as she stood in the Merman's Court. She could think of no worse greeting to their arrival to White Harbor then the solemn one Lord Manderly gave them upon their arrival to New Castle, his family's seat.

She felt Domeric's fingers grabbing her hand with an assuring grip.

He left him, the words slithered to her mind. And now her father was rotting in the Black Cells.

That reminder made her slip her hand out of his. A chilling sensation filling her tummy which had lurched painfully upon hearing he news of her father. She refused to look in his direction, focusing her attention towards the man who had delivered the unwelcomed news.

Lord Manderly sat atop his cushioned throne, a large man with a massive belly, his blue-greenish tunic doing its best to conceal the weight of the Lord of White Harbor. His hair was short and white, and had a white, neatly trimmed goatee with large jowls. Despite his underwhelming appearance, Sansa knew how important the man who sat before her was. House Manderly was the wealthiest family in the north, and one of her family's strongest bannermen.

If he noticed how she slipped away from Domeric, he didn't show it. "I'm afraid so," he bowed his head to confirm her question. His tone sympathetic. "It is an outrage my lady." He proclaimed indignantly, his court murmuring their agreement. "I'm raising my levies as we speak." He assured her. "White Harbor will answer your brother's call."

Robb, her heart filled with pride at her older brother, not the least bit surprised by his decision. She knew he wouldn't let this injustice stand. He'd do everything he could to protect their family.

"Lord Manderly?" Sansa spoke up, "What of my other brother?" She asked, "Jon?" clarifying after seeing a flicker of confusion on his face.

He frowned at her question. "There was no news about him."

Sansa's heart sank with. She nodded gratefully for his answer, taking a breath to try to steady herself, while her hands quivered at her side. She noticed the worried glance Domeric sent her way, but didn't acknowledge it, as she tried to calm herself about the lack of news about her brother.

They wouldn't kill him, she reasoned. Bastard or not, in their eyes, she doubted the Lannisters would care, seeing him as nothing more but a hostage a tool used to hurt her family. She clasped onto that reasoning even as fear began to gnaw at her that something worse had befallen him.

You left them, the slithery voice returned. Father arrested, brother lost, its cold voice sinking deep into her mind.

"So the north is marching to war?" Domeric spoke up for the first time since introductions had been made upon their arrival.

"Aye," Lord of White Harbor confirmed grimly, "Winterfell has called forth the banners. The north is assembling to save your father," he finished by ducking his head in her direction.

"My family is thankful for your loyalty, Lord Manderly," rewarding it with a smile. She had an appearance to maintain despite feeling sick and frazzled. She was a direwolf of Winterfell and she wouldn't botch the role expected of her, the one taught to her by her father and mother.

"We are true to our vows, Lady Sansa," Lord Manderly proclaimed, a large note of pride in his voice. "Our house remembers our debt to your family."

"You may stay as long as you need," a plump woman spoke up in a seat below Lord Manderly. Her yellow hair brushed down, framing a pink, round face, but her eyes were earnest, and her tone sincere. She was Lady Leona Manderly, wife of Lord Manderly's eldest son and heir, Ser Wyllis.

"Of course, of course," Lord Manderly happily agreed, snapping his sausage sized fingers as servants scurried forward, bowing when they came in view, all of whom dressed in the livery of House Manderly with mermans stitched into their shirts. "They will take you to your rooms," he informed them. "Surely you are exhausted from your journey. Rest now, and join me for supper with my family."

"Thank you, Lord Manderly," Domeric bowed.

"We would be honored," Sansa dipped into a curtsey. Maintaining the calm and grateful guest persona, but guilt wormed itself in her heart while her tummy remained wrought with worry to what happened to her father. Sansa wasn't sure she'd find rest as long as her family was in the company of lions.

\---------------

"Thank you again, Wylla for brining me here."

Instead of setting out to rest in her chambers, Sansa sought a better form of solitude. Returning to the north, she yearned for the Godswood, hoping the presence of the Old Gods could soothe her restlessness.

"It is my pleasure, Lady Sansa," Wylla replied, not sounding bothered at all by the task given to her by her grandfather. "I must say I haven't come here before." She admitted, "So I hope I am not leading us astray," she added, an effort to lighten the mood.

The two of them were currently walking through the Wolf's Den, an ancient castle that was once the seat to House Manderly, before New Castle. It also served as a seat for countless cadet branches for her family which ended with House Greystark who's line was eradicated in a failed rebellion with House Bolton.

She hadn't asked if Domeric had wanted to accompany her. She tried to mask her selfish desire of wanting to seek them out herself with the reasoning that Domeric had letters to write to his father at the Dreadfort.

I have letters to write too, Sansa knew she needed to draft something and have the maester of New Castle send it to Winterfell. She needed to tell Robb that she was safe. For him to tell her siblings that they escaped the capital unscathed by lions.

That we sacrificed father and Jon so we could leave. Her tummy rumbled at the truth in those words, fearing how Robb would react when he found out she left Jon and Father behind. So she pushed the task aside, not wanting to predict the anger and disappointment her brother would most likely feel for her cowardly escape.

"This was given to a knight," Wylla's voice broke through her musings on Robb and Winterfell and the letter she dreaded to write. "Ser Bartimus," she revealed, "He saved my father's life at the Battle of the Trident."

Sansa nodded politely, having heard this story before. She looked around the disrepair of it and realized the knight had let his gift sink even deeper into ruin. Poorly lit and barely furnished, it looked more fitting as a tomb than a home.

The youngest granddaughter of Lord Manderly, was a year or so younger than Sansa. Her hair was a mixture of blonde and garish green, her hair was braided, falling over her left shoulder. She kept her eyebrows blonde, her dress green-blue with a silver merman pin, and a bracelet of the Seven clasped on her left hand.

"I've been lighting candles and holding vigils for your father since the news reached us."

"Thank you," Sansa wasn't sure what else to say. The news of her father's arrest left her reeling and the lack of news of Jon made her feel even worse.

"Who's there?" A voiced called out to them.

"Ser Bartimus?" Wylla replied, undeterred.

The sound of wood hitting stone followed before a man came into the light. The smell of wine clung more tightly to him then his tattered cloak. One legged, with a crutch, he had a sour face which missed an eye. He blearily blinked at them and the silent guards who stalked behind them.

"Pah, it's you," he grumbled, "I was told to expect ya." He didn't sound the least bit pleased with entertaining guests.

"We are just here to see the Godswood," Sansa took the initiative, "I wish prayer and peace."

"You follow the Old Gods?" He sounded surprised. Even though they were in the North, White Harbor was a bastion of the Seven with much if not all of the city's populace following it including House Manderly.

"Aye, I do," she answered proudly.

He smiled, his mouth wrinkled, with yellowed teeth, still it was a look of approval.

"This is Lady Sansa Stark," Wylla informed the castellan.

"Sansa Stark," he repeated, voice dismayed, he clumsily moved his crutch to help him bow, "My lady."

"Thank you," she stepped forward, gingerly placing her hand upon his crutch, hoping to get him to stand back up. She didn't want him to topple over.

He looked up at her, "A disgrace what happened to your father." He huffed, "I'd fight for him if I could," he gestured to the crutch.

"I understand," she assured him. "You fought valiantly on the Trident for my father, and my family."

"I fought to live," he shrugged, "Honor and valiantly was bestowed upon us after the killing was done. That came from the bards and minstrels never the soldiers," he snorted. "I lost a leg, but gained a castle." His eye looking at the crutch that showed the cost of his sacrifice. A frown on his lips, "I can't decide if I won or not." He blinked as if remembering who's company he was currently in. "You came to see the Godswood not to hear an old broken knight ramble." He lifted his crutch, pointing it down one of the looming corridors, "Take that one, it'll lead you right to the Godswood." He lowered his crutch, "Take as long as you need, Lady Stark."

"You are too kind, Ser Bartimus," she curtsied. "A true knight of the north."

Finally, a surge of relief filling her chest as she blinked in the daylight, stepping into sight of the Godswood.

There the heart tree grew, reigning within the wood, a towering weirwood, its thick, pale limbs invasive, punching through broken windows and stone walls. It held a tangled grasp of the other trees that had once been planted here: elm, oak, and birch, had been choked out allowing the weirwood unrivaled and flourishing. The roots of the trees dug deep, spread out all around like pale snakes, each one as thick as a grown man's waist. The trunk of the tree so large and wide that the carved face upon its bark made it look fat and angry.

Wylla and the guards remained in the entrance to the Godswood, quiet and respectful.

Sansa was in awe of the tree before her, never seeing a weirwood so large before. She carefully tip toed around the exposed roots before settling at a spot in the shadow of the heart tree's face. She knelt immediately uncaring of the dirt and leaves and the cold ground.

The branches swayed in the breeze, red leaves dangling and waving like hands in greeting, as if welcoming her back to where she belonged.

For the first time since Sansa Stark left the capital, she smiled.

\---------------

"Come, join me," it was an invitation, but only one answer was expected.

"I'd my glad to," Sansa took a seat across from her.

Lady Dustin had been an unexpected guest to White Harbor, and following on her heels of her small retinue had been a hundred swords sworn to House Bolton. They had been sent from the Dreadfort by Lord Bolton. That was who Domeric was with now. Leaving this supper to take place between her and his aunt.

"It filled me with relief to hear of Domeric's and yours safe return from the capital," Lady Dustin spoke first.

"We were fortunate," Sansa detested saying it. Unable to forget about the father and brother she left behind so that she could flee. Her brother's fate which remained a mystery, haunting her thoughts.

Her time in the Godswood had been a balm. There she had put down her burdens, her guilt, her anxiety, praying to the Old Gods for respite and wisdom, guidance and comfort. She knew what ailed her would not be fixed by a single visit, but that didn't mean it hadn't helped her.

It was there that she wanted to be. Not here, not supping with Lady Dustin. Sansa masked her resignation at not being where she wanted, knowing she needed to remain polite to her as she meant so much to Domeric.

Servants arrived with their first serving of their supper, a creamy seafood stew, steam billowing from the bowls, bread came with it. Sansa thanked the quiet servant, taking her spoon and looking into her bowl to see carrots among other vegetables floating with the crabmeat and fish. She dipped her spoon, and took a bite, savoring the warmth of it that helped to banish the chill that had nestled in her tummy. She helped herself to a second bite, aware and careful to not let her decorum falter in the midst of her ravenous appetite.

"You care for my nephew dearly," Lady Dustin broke up the silence, "Or so I'm told."

Sansa finished chewing her food before looking up to see the challenging hue in her eyes. "I do," she answered, but to her ears the words lacked the affection that use to cling to such declarations.

"Ahh, the passion of young love," Barbrey Dustin remarked wryly, breaking her bread in two. She picked up her knife and started to spread a raspberry along one of the pieces. "It gladdens my heart to see you not acting like one of those maidens in those songs southerners love to hear," she put her knife down. "Those maidens love their knights, but what do they do for them?" She took a bite. "Nothing," she said flatly after chewing her food. "They fret and wait, hardly the help their men could need or use."

"I-I care for your nephew greatly." Sansa found herself saying not liking how or what his aunt was implying in regards to her. "I love him."

"Love?" she scoffed, "Didn't you hear me girl?" She scooped up some stew with her spoon. "My nephew needs someone fierce not foolish." She took a bite, some of it dribbling down onto her chin. "He became a son to me after my sister died," she picked up her napkin, dabbing at her chin, but her eyes never left Sansa's face, two cold obsidian orbs. "Lord Bolton and his grey rat proposed this match for the benefit of House Bolton." She began spreading the preserve onto her other piece of bread.

"What about Domeric? He was a son to me after his mother died," a rare slip in her voice with the mention of her departed sister. "I gave him his fist pony as a boy, his first horse too from my father's herd in the Rills," she remembered wistfully. "If he had asked me for the world, I would've bloodied it to try to give it to him." Her mouth a thin line, eyes cold and dark as stone. "What of you? All I see is a quiet, demure girl who resembles more trout than wolf." She dismissed, waving her hand as she did.

"I'd die for him!" Sansa declared, manners forgotten, poise having crumbled to the onslaught of Lady Dustin's little speech. Her heart thundering against her chest, her fists tight and shaking, unable to keep calm in the face of what Lady Dustin criticisms.

"Die for him?" Lady Dustin raised an eyebrow towards her. "You won't even speak to him."

Sansa flinched.

"Yes, I know," she said softly, "Dom tried to hide it, but he could never lie to me." She revealed, "He never said it out loud, or why it was you would not speak to him, but its simple enough to see."

"We could've stayed," Sansa said in all but a whisper. Feeling defeated, her indignation deflating at the sharp words and sharper tone that Lady Dustin had used to obliterate past Sansa's decorum and defenses. It wasn't Queen Cersei or Joffrey or Littlefinger that had found their way under her skin but Domeric's aunt.

"And done what?" Lady Dustin's tone drenched in disappointment. "Gotten yourself and Dom arrested," a scenario that made her mouth twist instinctively. "I told you Domeric didn't need a fool for a wife. You'd weaken the north in your mistaken sense of duty." She took a sip from her wine, "Do you truly think myself, my father, or Lord Bolton would raise even a single soldier if Dom was in the capital with a Lannister knife to his throat."

"I-I," she spluttered to argue, while the truth behind Lady Dustin's words sunk in, revealing the depths of Sansa's mistake. The walls of her pride came crumbling down at how she hadn't been able to see it. She had blundered in her judgment, costing her the closeness of her betrothed. Tears pricked her eyes, with shame filling her heart as she looked back at how she acted towards the man she professed to love.

"It's easy to die for some one," Lady Dustin noted, going back to Sansa's earlier claim, "but killing," she let the suggestion linger in the air between them. "Would you kill for him? Could you kill for him? To protect him?" She leaned back in her chair, "No, I think not."

\-------------------------

Her supper with Lady Dustin drove Sansa back to the Wolf's Den, to the Godswood, seeking solace and peace within the shadow of the heart tree. Sorting through the barbed words of Lady Dustin, piecing the truth in the sentiment and realizing just how much she had failed the man who was to be her husband.

The angry red slits of the weirwood tree glared down at her, as if enraged at what she had done. The look so intense, she turned away, a shiver followed that didn't come from the cold windy night.

"Sansa?"

The voice she both longed to hear and didn't carried over the chilly air. She looked over her shoulder to see Domeric was standing in the moonlight, a frown marred his face. "What's the meaning of this?" Concern laced his voice, his footfalls quick as he cut the distance between them, pulling his pale red cloak off of him and placing it onto her shoulders. "You're not dressed to be out here for too long."

His action in the presence of a weirwood wasn't lost on Sansa, as she breathed in his intoxicating scent, relishing in the warmth of the leather. She kept her head ducked, fearing fresh tears were ready to spill.

"I'm sorry, Dom," she half apologized, half sobbed. Before she could stop herself, she flung her arms around him. Thankful to feel his touch again, how she longed to feel him against her.

"Sansa," he sounded surprised and troubled, but he greeted her as warmly as he had done the hundred times before they embraced. His hands going up and down her back to try to sooth the sobbing she felt wracking her body. "What has gotten into you?"

"I was wrong," she admitted through a hiccup, "I was being stupid!" She let out a bitter laugh, "a stupid girl," she reluctantly pulled her head away from his chest to looking into his eyes, finding strength in them.

"You were upset," Domeric deflected her apology, "You want your family safe," he squeezed her shoulders, "I can understand that." He bent down, kissing her cheeks, unbothered by the streaks of tears that marred them.

"No, no," She protested at how quick he forgave her, at how he defended her. All the while, Lady Dustin's words haunted her, cursing her, at all the mistakes she had made since she left the capital.

"I never should've taken it out on you." Looking back, she was embarrassed at how childish, and short sighted she had been. Nursing a grudge towards him, someone who loved and cared for her and her family. She had treated that with derision and suspicion when he was forced to make the difficult choice. He made the right choice. Domeric had been right. Her father had been right. Jon had been right.

She had been wrong, a confession, that was bitter not out of disapproval but just at what it had cost her.

Quietly, he cupped her cheeks and leaned in to kiss her.

Sansa felt herself melting into it, feeling the haze of happiness cloud her mind, the warmth in her tummy at the touch of her lips against his. An action they hadn't shared for so long. Too long, she thought, and to her disappointment it broke only after a few heartbeats.

"I head for Moat Calin in the morning," he revealed, taking her hands in his. "I must lead the men tasked by my father to the old castle. I'll wait for Robb and my father there."

She remembered Lady Dustin's words, her challenge to Sansa. She may have been wrong to be upset towards Domeric, but that didn't mean she was going to forget what happened to her father and brother. Sansa wasn't going to stay in White Harbor or Winterfell, fretting and waiting for her problems to be solved by others. She could help. She was going to help.

"We go together," she insisted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the awesome support you continue to show this story. It encourages the muse more when it knows there is an audience for it. So don't forget to drop a comment. It means a lot to me to get your feedback.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	41. Robb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the awesome feedback from the last chapter. It was humbling. Your kind words mean a lot to me. So thank you.

"Arya!" Rickon half squealed, half laughed when he saw his older sister for the first time in months.

Robb bit back the reprimand at seeing his brother abandoning any sort of dignity that was expected of a Stark. He knew how much Rickon needed this, watching his youngest sibling sprint towards their newly arrived sister. So he settled for watching the reunion in silence, with nothing but a smile for the siblings he loved so much.

Arya had just enough time to dismount her horse before she found Rickon on her in a frenzied embrace. "Rickon," She was smiling ear-to-ear, "I missed you." She tussled his hair.

"I missed you too," He giggled, looking up at her.

"I wasn't expecting you here."

The here was on the King's Road between Castle Cerwyn and Winterfell. Robb had gotten a raven from Cley who had informed him of House Mormont's arrival to his castle. So he had decided to ride out on the King's Road to surprise his sister, an idea that had delighted Rickon and Bran. He had seen little of them these past few days. Lords from the north arrived every day and it fell on Robb to host them, dine with them, listen to them. It meant he didn't have much time for his brothers so he seized this opportunity.

"Did we surprise you?" Rickon asked happily.

"You did," Arya answered, "But it was the best surprise." Her eyes found Robb at that as if knowing his involvement in this.

Robb gave the reins of his horse to one of the few guards he had brought with them so that he could greet his sister. "I'm glad to hear it," he made his way over to her, unable to stop from smiling at seeing her before him. "You have grown," She was still as thin as a needle, her hair had grown out, but it was done in a battle braid, her trousers and tunic both Stark grey with a sprinting direwolf on the latter, both were dirtied and a bit wrinkled.

Some things don't change, he thought amused, taking in her appearance.

"Rickon," Robb had to coax his brother so as he could get a turn in welcoming back their sister. Rickon let go with a groan, and a pout but stepped away where Shaggydog and Nymeria were quick to appease him. "I missed you," Robb hugged her.

"Me too," her voice muffled against him. When they pulled apart, he could see the tears in her grey eyes, threatening to spill.

"I-I had to return," she sounded determined, "A-after what happened," her voice shook but it wasn't sadness that filled her tone. It was anger.

"I know," Robb hugged her again. "You're home," He assured her, "The first of many more to return home," he promised her. Father, Mother, Jon, Sansa, the names of those who still needed to come back. He felt the pang in his chest upon thinking that so many of their family were still separated from each other.

The pack is at its strongest when they're together, he remembered the words father taught him and his siblings growing up. Now their pack was split, alone and vulnerable, surrounded by enemies. Still holding onto Arya, he was pleased to have at least one reunion.

He bent down and kissed her forehead before finally ending the embrace, "We'll have time to catch up," he promised her, "I also want to see what you've learned."

She looked up and smiled, "Really?"

"Really," he squeezed her shoulder, before looking over her to see the Mormont party watching on in respected silence.

"Lady Mormont," he greeted her, silently chastising himself for failing as the acting Lord of Winterfell for not greeting her earlier and properly. "My apologies," from the corner of his eye he watched Arya make her way over towards Bran who remained atop his horse.

"Pah," she waved it off, "Your pup's returned to her pack." She grinned, "I'd be distracted too, if it was one of my cubs," she gestured to her daughters who were behind her.

"Thank you," he felt relief calm his nerves at her understanding, "Winterfell welcomes you," he told them, "And my family thanks you." He moved to get back on his horse. "I will be honored to escort you back to the castle and have food for you and your people."

"We would be honored," Lady Mormont smiled, bowing her head.

Robb returned the smile, settling atop his horse he gave the order for his retinue to head back towards Winterfell. He looked to see Rickon getting back on his pony with help from Arya. In these few peaceful seconds he didn't have to think about the duties that awaited him at Winterfell.

So much is depending on me, that sliver of doubt coiling itself around his heart. Hearing the laughter from Rickon and Arya, seeing Bran smile, Robb found the strength to stamp out that doubt and to embrace this moment where everything felt just perfect.

\------------------

"I missed this," Arya was standing in front of the weirwood tree within the Godswood.

"As you should," Robb moved to stand beside her, "You are a Stark." He chuckled when she rolled her eyes, he enveloped her in a side hug. Her arms slid around him, holding him tight. "I missed you," he said again. "I'm so happy to have you back."

"Me too," Arya agreed, loosening her grip on their embrace as she stepped towards the weirwood.

After Robb had made sure the Mormont party was settled in, he took his siblings to the Godswood. A reprieve that he boldly took, knowing he had lords to speak to and plans to make, but Robb was still a brother, their older brother, and he couldn't neglect his siblings, his pack. He had to do right by them, and if that meant delaying his council with his lords, then he'd do it. Robb made sure to get Luwin's counsel. The maester agreed that a brief delay could be acceptable, but it wouldn't be wise to make it longer since Robb's duties as Lord of Winterfell couldn't be ignored.

How did Father make it look so easy? Robb wondered. He was failing at balancing it now and was only acting Lord and yet Father had done it so well for so long. He always had time for them and his duties to Winterfell and the north.

I'm failing them, he felt the cold stab of guilt in his heart at the truth. And soon I'll be leaving them.

"I have them!" Rickon's happy declaration shook Robb from his musings. His brother's mood was infectious and Robb found his despair being chased away at seeing Rickon's wide smile.

"Careful, Rickon," Robb cautioned him. He didn't like seeing his brother running with swords in his arms, blunted or not.

Rickon obeyed at once, stopping in his sprinting and settling into what could be called a hasty walk. Shaggydog heeded no warning. The dark furred direwolf running through the woods, barking animatedly, excited to be reunited with his littermate-Nymeria, as the two playfully ran and wrestled with one another. A cautious Summer stayed just outside the fray while Grey Wind watched with a careful gaze.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Having second thoughts?" Robb teased.

"No," Arya sounded insulted at the mere suggestion.

Robb grinned, "Then shall we?"

She matched his grin, before nodding.

Robb stepped forward to retrieve his blunted sword from Rickon, who seemed very proud of his role in this. He tried to maintain a serious posture, while his blue eyes gleamed with excitement, and his feet twitched from the boundless energy he always seemed to have.

"Thank you, good ser," Robb said in a feigning haughty voice that earned a giggle out of his siblings. He took his practice sword giving it a careful flick back and forth before being satisfied he stepped away.

He looked over to his other brother Bran, who had been quiet. He was sitting against one of the towering oak trees. Bran had rarely spoken since Robb had brought him out here. He felt his chest tighten at seeing his brother looking so defeated.

How could the gods wrong him? Robb still couldn't accept seeing his brother in such a way. It should be Bran laughing and playing with them. He remembered how eager Bran was to begin sword training and how he'd beg Robb to show him anything he could no matter how brief their lessons were. Now, here he sat a shell of himself, rarely smiling or talking, who seemed more inclined for sullen silences than lively chatter.

"Mayhaps after this we should go riding, Bran?" Robb wanted to keep his brother involved in their conversation even if he couldn't partake in the sparring. He didn't want him to feel ignored or forgotten. "You can show Arya how fast and formidable you've become atop a horse." A ghost of a smile appeared on Bran's lips at the suggestion and that made Robb feel better than any decision or action he had taken as Lord of Winterfell.

"That sounds wonderful," Arya quickly agreed, sensing their brother's despondence, "But I should warn you that I wont go easy on you because your younger than me," She stuck her tongue out at him, earning a brief but genuine chuckle out of Bran, and a giggle from Rickon.

"Me too!" Their youngest brother chimed in, "I want to go too!"

"Of course," Robb tousled Rickon's hair, "The pack will ride together."

"I want to," Bran's voice sounded raspy, but there was an inflection of happiness within his tone.

"Then it's settled," Robb couldn't keep the satisfaction out of his voice at seeing such an improvement out of his brother, no matter how small. He then turned to his sister, "But first I must teach our sister a lesson in swordplay."

Arya didn't wilt at the challenge. There was a hue of confidence in her grey eyes, she moved her feet into her stance and raised her blunted sword to show she was ready. "I'm waiting, brother."

Robb made the first move, curious to see what training his sister received on Bear Island. He went in first with a careful jab putting little force behind the move, not wanting to overwhelm his sister so quickly.

Arya met his attack with her sword, guiding the blade away from her body, before she angled her sword into attacking him with a quick thrust.

Robb parried the attack with ease but remained proud of her move. She had always been quick, and if she used that advantage in her attacks then Robb had no trouble in seeing her becoming a skilled fighter with more time and training.

Rickon groaned at Robb successfully blocking it, causing him to glance over at his youngest brother, "Who are you rooting for, Rickon?"

"Arya!" He answered instantly.

Robb feigned a look of annoyance while Arya grinned. "Bran?"

"Arya," He answered back, a smile was slow in spreading across his face as it seemed he was gradually coming out of his shell in the company of his siblings.

"Very well," Robb sighed, "It seems I'll be disappointing my brothers and sister today." He teased, just as he was about to strike, Arya moved instead, quickly sidestepping to try to flank him, but Robb easily stopped the attempt, so she settled for a flurry of quick cuts.

"Dacey has outdone herself," Robb praised, parrying the last of his sister's strikes. He noticed the proud look on his sister's face at receiving such a compliment. "You have learned quickly, Arya."

He pushed forward past her defenses with his own strikes, she dodged and blocked them the best she could, but Robb was putting more and more of his strength and force behind his attacks. He was successfully tiring her out, she didn't have the stamina or the training to yet properly counter the strategy. With a final strike, he swatted Arya's sword away and put a swift end to their fight.

"I lost?"

"You weren't expecting to beat me in our first fight were you?" Robb asked his youngest sister, winking when she frowned at him. "We'll have other practices, I promise."

Rickon groaned in disappointment at her defeat. Robb didn't take it personally, settling instead on a look of feigned outrage which he sent towards his brother who responded with unapologetic giggling.

"Thanks," she said sincerely moving to pick up her sword.

Robb responded with a smile, "You really were good, Arya."

"M'lord," A guard came scurrying forward interrupting the solitude of the Stark siblings. He was red faced and breathing heavily, he quickly bowed, "Apologies, m'lord, but banners have been spotted nearing Winterfell." He straightened up, "It's the flayed man. Lord Bolton is leading them."

Any mirth Robb felt was snuffed out when the image of the flayed man entered his mind. "Have Lord Bolton and his men tended to, I will see to him in the solar," Robb instructed to the guard, who nodded along, "And send word to the kitchens have them bring bread and hippocras."

"I will see to it, m'lord," the guard bowed and went off.

Robb turned back towards his brothers and sister, who were unable to hide the disappointment at seeing their time together cut short. "I'm sorry," he hated to do it, but he had to.

"We know," Arya had taken Rickon's hand in her own. She sent Robb a reassuring look which made Robb so thankful to have her back with them.

"Thank you," he moved to leave, "We'll still go on that ride," he told them, "I promise."

\-------------------------

"Eat and be welcomed," Robb told his newly arrived guest.

Lord Bolton broke the offered bread in two, taking a small bite before inclining his head in Robb's direction, "I am honored," he next took the offered cup, looking down at its contents, "Hippocras," he raised it towards Robb before taking a sensible sip.

Robb was silent as he watched guest right be observed between himself and Lord Bolton. He kept his hands under his desk as to not to let the Lord of the Dreadfort see them shaking. The man before him was plain in appearance, but the flayed man stitched into his armor sent a chill through Robb.

He should've been use to the image having had Domeric in Winterfell for these past few years, but with Domeric, Robb saw a friend, in Lord Bolton he saw something else. His eyes drifting back to the flayed man on Lord Bolton's pink doublet. It looked to be crying out in anguish. He felt his stomach clench, as his thoughts drifted back to the stories he heard about the rooms in the Dreadfort, where the Boltons hang the skins of their enemies.

During one feast Robb had found his courage at the bottom of a tankard to ask Domeric about the supposed room within the Dreadfort. "We do," Domeric had answered grimly.

Robb pushed away that reminder, blinking back in the present to see Lord Bolton was watching him quietly. His colorless eyes were taking him in like Robb was a page in some book that he was reading, and the curve of Lord Bolton's lip seemed to indicate what he found was amusing.

Is he picturing my skin hanging alongside so many others? That image nearly made him shiver, but Robb forced himself not to, trying to settle his suddenly rapid heartbeat with some water. He willed his hand to remain calm as he took the glass and drank from it, feeling the eyes of Lord Bolton on him. His gaze felt as sharp as a flaying knife.

"I come before the arrival of my levies," Lord Bolton's soft voice broke the silence within the solar. "I assure you my men will be here within the week," his fingers tapped his glass. "However, I thought it prudent that I speak to you as swiftly as I could."

"Oh?" Robb detected the seriousness in Lord Bolton's soft tone.

"Yes, I bring news from White Harbor," he revealed, "Domeric and the Lady Sansa are safe."

Robb felt relief and happiness swell in his chest at this unexpected source of good news. "Truly?" He felt a smile stretch across his lips, silently wondering how quickly he could pass this news on to his siblings.

"Yes, Domeric wrote a letter from White Harbor to inform me of their safe return."

There, Robb spotted it. A small but noticeable crack in the Lord of the Dreadfort's veneer at the mention of his son's safety. It was surreal to see a look no matter how brief of contentment upon the intimidating Lord Bolton's face.

"They ride to Moat Cailin with a hundred Bolton swords to sure up its defenses and wait word from you."

He was still ecstatic about the news of their safety that it took a few seconds for a particular word to sink in Robb's mind. "They?"

"Aye," Lord Bolton confirmed, "Both of them." He looked him over before adding, "If I may be so bold, a move I endorse."

"And why is that, Lord Bolton?"

"An arrangement has been made between our families."

"I am aware of that," Robb was careful to keep his tone respectful, "A betrothal that my family has no intention on breaking."

"We have no doubts," he bowed his head, "However, it would be foolish to ignore recent events. You've called your banners, and the last two times the banners were called, war answered." He noted softly, "Our betrothal with the Lady Sansa is too important. It must be protected, even if that comes with some discomfort on your sister's part." He explained, "Let the Lady Sansa travel with our forces. She will be well looked after, and if required the wedding can be observed and consummated."

"I understand your concerns, Lord Bolton, but I'm not certain that is the best course for my sister," Robb knew it wasn't wise to upset him, but he still had his duty as Sansa's older brother to look after her.

"Of course," he didn't look the least bit bothered that Robb disagreed with his assessment, "I will say no more on the matter. "

"I will think on what you've said," Robb didn't like the idea of having Sansa join them on the march, but he also needed to tread softly. He couldn't afford to alienate Lord Bolton, he was aware of the amount of men the Lord of the Dreadfort commanded, as well as his close ties to Houses Dustin and Ryswell. Robb was certain that they'd support Lord Bolton's suggestion of keeping Sansa with them to insure the Stark-Bolton alliance.

"Thank you, my lord," He smiled. It was thin lipped and brief. His pale eyes concealing his thoughts and emotions.

"Tonight, Lord Bolton, I invite you to sit at my table, by my side, and we will drink to our family's alliance," Robb offered, "and to our prospering futures."

"I would like that," He agreed, "However, I will be riding out in the morning."

"To meet up with your forces?" Robb guessed, "You are welcomed to wait for them here under my hospitality."

"You are kind, but I ride to Cerwyn Castle," he revealed, "I have come to an agreement with Lord Medgar in regards to a betrothal with his daughter, the Lady Jonelle," he sipped his hippocras. "With such uncertainty ahead of us, I found it wise to remarry," he put his cup down. "We are not all so blessed," he said softly, "To have so many young and hale spares to carry on the family name if the worse were to come to pass."

Robb reacted carefully to this news. "May I be the first to offer my congratulations."

"You are too kind, my lord," Lord Bolton stood up, "If you will excuse me,"

Robb allowed it, "Of course," he stood as well, noticing Grey Wind stirring from where he had been resting by the hearth.

Lord Bolton nodded, and left the solar without another word, his pink cloak rippling behind him looking more akin to skin than cloth. When the door closed behind him, Robb sat back down, eyes on where the Lord of the Dreadfort had exited.

A threat was spoken, he realized, silent, but sincere. He felt the hot breath of Grey Wind upon his hand, his direwolf had moved to sit beside him. Robb smiled, petting him atop his head, while he mulled over Lord Bolton's words certain of the intent behind them.

To keep my vassals appeased, I must permit my sister to travel with the army and into the dangers we march into.

As an older brother he disliked it, wanting to dismiss it at once. However as acting the Lord of Winterfell he couldn't deny Lord Bolton's points and the reasons he was pursuing it. Not for the first time did it feel like the two roles were at war with each other within him. Brother and Lord, fighting to be heard, for its will to win out.

"Come, Grey Wind," Robb knew what he needed to do. "I promised the others a ride before supper." He got up to see Grey Wind swatting his tail back and forth looking excited and happy at the prospect of a run through the woods. With his decision made, Robb left his father's solar not as the acting Lord of Winterfell but as an older brother intending on keeping his promise to his siblings.

\----------------------------

It was time.

He had given the order. The men were waiting.

Robb felt his heart thunder in his chest. It besieged his ribs in a rhythm moved by uncertainty and fear. He'd be a fool to deny that he wasn't afraid. It had been there with him since the beginning ever since he received word from the capital about father's arrest. It was always with him. A shadow that stalked behind him. A crushing weight that rested on his shoulders.

He released a shaky breath as he made his way to her chambers. His fingers trembled at his side so he balled them into fists to hide the growing fear he felt curl within him.

When he arrived to her chambers he wasn't surprised to hear noise coming from within despite the late hour. Even though Robb was pressed for time he still put his ear to the door and listened, a smile quickly formed from what he heard.

His smiled turned wistful when he pulled away and knocked.

She cursed. He tried not to laugh before he pushed the door open to see Arya standing there, wide eyes, her bedpost showing severe signs of wear and tear. Confirming his suspicion that she had been practicing her sparring with it. The blunted sword that was used was hidden poorly behind her back, she bit her lower lip.

"How did you fare?" Robb gestured to her opponent.

Her worried expression flickered away at realizing she wasn't in trouble. A proud smile replaced it. Helping to amplify the clear happiness she felt at not only not being reprimanded, but actually encouraged in her training. "I was practicing the moves you showed me."

In seeing her so happy, Robb felt his heart twist. Reminding him just how much he loved and had missed his youngest sister while she was away. Their reunion was so painfully brief with him now having to leave.

"You're leaving," she said suddenly.

Robb wasn't surprise she figured it out so quickly, after all it wasn't just her blade she was quick with. "I am." He watched her eyes dim before her head dropped.

"I-I must leave," he found himself saying, eyes averting his crestfallen youngest sister, knowing if he lingered on her, he'd only open up his heart to more doubt and he couldn't afford that. Not when his father and so many were counting on him.

To protect my father, I must abandon my sister and brothers.

"Let me come too," Arya begged, "Sansa's going! I can help too!"

"No, Arya," Robb declined firmly. He had been prepared for his sister to make that argument. "Bran and Rickon need you here." He looked down when he heard her sniff, and he put his arms around her and held her close, feeling her shaky sobs. "Will be together soon, I promise," he soothed her, her arms were wrapped tight around him, but he didn't care.

"And J-Jon?"

"We'll find Jon," Robb assured her, knowing how close they were. Jon's absence left its mark on him as well. He had been troubled when his brother hadn't been mentioned in the princess' letter making him fear and worry what the Lannisters had done to him.

If they harmed him, I'll kill every one of them, he had vowed angrily when the fear of his brother's fate churned in his stomach.

"You'll show him everything they taught you," Robb continued, not wanting to dwell on his brother's absence. He felt the tears prickling his eyes. A sniff followed, but he tried to mask it as a cough.

"It'll be a surprise," Robb's voice hitched, but he ignored it, "He's going to be so proud of you," he squeezed her tight, "So incredibly proud." Robb bent down and kissed her hair. "We all are."

"Really?" Her lower lip was trembling and her cheeks stained with tears.

"Absolutely," He said without hesitation. "Come, I still have to say my goodbyes to Bran and Rickon," he expected them to be just as painful as Arya's. He held out his hand for her to take which she did. An act that had been done countless times between them growing up; whether it was walking throughout the castle or exploring the Godswood. Robb had always wanted to be close. He saw it as his duty as the eldest to look out for the others. To support and protect them whenever they needed it.

Now if they needed him he wouldn't be there. It seemed in order to be the Lord of Winterfell, Robb had to put aside his role as their older brother and that hurt him more then he could say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went with the tv show version of Robb leaving instead of the book version. I like the added intimacy it offered. Also if you haven't realized it by now, I enjoy writing/exploring the Stark family especially the strong bond between the siblings. I hope you like my interpretation of it as well.
> 
> Please don't forget to drop a comment. It means a lot to me.
> 
> Thanks for reading,
> 
> -Spectre4hire
> 
> P.S: All these mentions of Jon, I wonder if that means we'll be hearing from him soon…


	42. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those who took the time to leave a comment. It meant a lot, your encouraging words were a great source of motivation to try to get this chapter done quickly.

"Do you think we'll get knighted after we win?" Alyn asked.

Jon sat tired and sore by the fire, thankful for the reprieve after the day of hard work that Thoros had put him and the others through.

"Winning?" Harwin scoffed, sitting across from them, "We haven't even fought, and you're already dreaming about your knighthood."

"I'm confident in Ser Beric's plan," Alyn didn't allow Harwin's bluntness to puncture his optimism.

"Why?" A new voice joined their conversation, heads turned to see Ser Justin, a knight in Lord Mallery's employ. He was flanked by two others, but their names slipped Jon's memory. He only knew of Justin because the man's voice was often loud when it came to discussing or in his case dismissing their cause.

"He proposes we fight the Mountain with holes and traps," Justin sneered, "He's leading us to our deaths."

"We have our orders," Harwin observed solemnly, earning murmurs of agreement from the other northerners who had come with them from Lord Stark's household.

"Bring the Mountain to justice."

"Aye, we got our orders," Justin agreed, his snide tone conveying his thoughts on those merits, "From a dead king and a Hand that's been arrested for treason."

The mention of Lord Stark provoked the loyal northerners, stirring and muttering, who sent glares and dark looks towards the knight and his men for their insults towards their liege lord.

"Careful," Jon found his voice before another could, and he was certain that voice would be more angry and threatening then his.

"You talking to me, bastard?" Ser Justin frowned, clearly annoyed at being addressed by him.

"Sounded more like a threat," provoked one of the men who stood beside him.

"Aye," the knight nodded, "It did."

"What's all this?" Thoros came into view.

"Nothing," Justin turned away from Jon but not before giving him a contemptuous look. He gestured for his followers, and they left the northerner encampment without another word or looking back.

"Great Other take him," Thoros cursed when the man was out of sight. He grumbled as he pulled out the wineskin tied to his hip, "His mouth's bigger than any hole we could dig."

Jon wisely didn't comment on the matter.

"You handled him well, Master Snow," Harwin praised sincerely.

"Aye, you did," Thoros agreed, taking the empty spot on Jon's other side.

"You see knights like that, Alyn, and you still want to be one," Harwin shook his head in dismay before going back to the pot that was simmering over the fire.

Jon ate his stew in silence, mulling over Harwin's words, and disdain for knighthoods. He remembered the famous knights, he and Robb dreamed of being as they played and ran around Winterfell. It was in learning about knights from his lessons with Maester Luwin did Jon first learn of a better life that could be had for bastards. Those who proved themselves with integrity and courage and who rose above the stigma of their bastard birth.

Many nights in Winterfell he fell asleep to the pleasant thoughts of being knighted, earning a name and land for some great deed. He still remembered Robb's reaction when he told him of his dreams of knighthood.

I'll knight you when I'm Lord of Winterfell, Robb declared when they were still boys, I promise, I'll give you a castle too. But it can't be too far, I can't have my brother and best friend too far away.

Jon smiled fondly at the memory. It had been him who had to correct Robb that a knight had to knight another, and that just being a Lord didn't necessarily qualify. Robb hadn't cared about that detail. Then we'll just have to become knights together, he proposed, and whoever is knighted first will have to knight the other.

He had happily agreed to his brother's plan. That was Robb's way, supportive and loyal. It didn't matter to him that knights were of the south, and followed the Seven, he hadn't cared. If it had become important to Jon then Robb made it important to him too.

Now, they weren't talking and playing about being knights and fighting in battles. They were preparing for it.

Robb's called the banners of the north with plans on marching south to free their father.

He's not your father.

Jon frowned down into his half empty bowl at the invasive voice that whispered in the back of his mind, never letting him forget this new truth.

"Ya can't judge all knights by him," Thoros' dismissive voice burst through Jon's reflections. "That be like judging all Red Priests by me," he laughed, pointing to himself as he did, before taking another sip from his wineskin.

Harwin smiled, "Aye, wouldn't that be a pity." He had formed an unexpected friendship with him, the two often shared drinks and jokes by the fire.

"Shouldn't we ride north?" Jon's thoughts on Robb's movements lingered on his mind, "We can regroup with my brother."

"Your brother is hundreds of leagues away," Thoros said bluntly, "He won't be here for weeks."

Jon couldn't argue the truth in that observation, so he finished his stew quietly, vowing that he'd join Robb as soon as he could. That's where I belong, he thought, by his side.

"What of Ser Beric?" Alyn asked, "Has there been any sightings of him?"

While they remained behind to dig holes and prepare traps for the Mountain, Ser Beric had taken the rest of their forces to harass and lead the Mountain in the wrong direction. Allowing them to make their preparations without fear of being discovered. When the time was right, Ser Beric would lead them unexpectedly right into their trap.

"No," Thoros rubbed his beard in thought, "But it should be soon. The patrols are increasing we shan't remain hidden for much longer. We'll have to fight whether we're ready or not."

"I'm ready," Alyn said earnestly.

Thoros looked him over from above his wineskin, a scrutinizing gaze, that had melted away all of his previous jovialness. "Many men say that before the eve of battle," he took a small sip, "and most are proven wrong." He sighed.

"We have the advantage," Alyn argued, "Our cause is just. The Old Gods will bless us."

Thoros let out a hoarse laugh. "A just cause? You think that'll protect you from Gregor Clegane? Was his cause just when he raped Princess Elia and her children butchered!" he asked angrily. "I was there in the throne room, the day their bodies were presented." His mouth twisted, a hazy hue in his eyes, "I'll never forget the bodies of the little Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon." He held up his wineskin, "No matter how hard I try."

The sister and brother I'll never know.

Jon had heard the horrors that were committed by the Lannister army during the Sack of King's Landing. They had seemed so different then. Aerys, Elia, Rhaenys, Aegon, strangers written in ink, but now that Jon knew the truth, he couldn't see them like that anymore. They weren't just names in one of Maester Luwin's lessons, they were his kin.

Aerys, Rhaenys, Aegon, these were names forged in blood to Jon. Rhaenys and Aegon were the siblings he could've known growing up. He couldn't help but wonder would he be as close to Aegon as he was to Robb? Would he love Rhaenys as much as Arya? They were his blood, but now they were ghosts.

He stared into the fire, finding himself silently praying to the Old Gods-for protection and for justice.

"Thoros," one of the men-at-arms sprinted towards them, "We have news from Ser Beric."

Jon blinked out of his prayers. He was unable to deny the uneasy sense of power that seem to settle over him due to the timing of messenger's arrival. They're listening, he knew it.

"It's time," the messenger relayed, "Ser Beric says at first light, we fight!"

\------------------------------

"You wanted to see me, Ser Beric?" Jon approached the Lord of Blackhaven. It had been more than an hour since the Lord of Blackhaven had returned to their camp. However, in that time he spent most of it with the knights and lords of his retinue. No doubt, they were still working on the plans of the attack in the morning.

He was talking to Thoros but upon Jon's approach he turned to greet him. In the firelight he looked weary. His red hair was windswept, his black cloak muddied while his tunic and trousers were wrinkled. "Aye, I did, by now you know that in the morning we will strike at the Mountain's camp."

"I have heard that, my lord."

"I promised your father I'd protect you, and see you safely on the road to Winterfell," Beric sighed, "A task that only grows in difficulty the more north we go." He scratched at his beard, "That is why I cannot ask you to join in the fighting tomorrow."

"You don't have to ask me," Jon replied, "You need every sword you can get against the Mountain. I can fight. You need me."

"This isn't a song, boy," Beric said bluntly, "This will not be a ballad sung my minstrels. It'll be the sound of steel and screams."

"I'm a man grown," Jon argued. "This is my choice. I can fight. I will fight." He thought about the stories of Rhaenys and Aegon being cloaked in the red capes of Lannister to hide their blood and wounds. The bodies of my siblings.

He could hear his heartbeat drumming in his ears. Where was their choice? What chance did they have?

The Mountain denied them that, and Jon couldn't forget that. Not now, not after he knew the truth. His choice was made and he'd see it through.

"Have you ever killed a man, Snow?" Thoros cut in bluntly.

"I have," Jon saw the surprise on Thoros' face at his answer. He remembered the wildlings who ventured too close to Winterfell, and the fighting that ensued between them and Jon, Robb, Domeric, and Theon. They had fought and killed them.

The Red Priest wiped away his surprise and adapted a more unbothered look. He folded his arms over his large stomach. "This is different. This is the Mountain, and he is not one you seek on the battlefield."

"But that's why we're here," Jon pointed out, "We were given orders in the name of our King. Justice must be handed out," Jon clenched his hands into fists at his side. "I cannot turn my back on that just because of the dangers involved." Trying and failing to keep the irritation from seeping into his tone, "Every other man out there has families that would want to see them return too. Why should I be allowed that offer to leave but not them?"

"Because you're the Lord Hand's Son," Beric observed delicately.

"I'm his bastard," Jon spat, the anger burned and swelled in his chest.

Beric frowned whether it was Jon's tone or the answer itself, he didn't know, but the Stormlord took his response unhappily all the same. "What of your direwolf? Has he returned yet?"

"Ghost is still hunting," It wasn't unlike him to be gone for nights at a time to hunt, but Ghost would always return. It didn't matter how far either of them traveled, he always found his way back to Jon.

That didn't please Beric either. It seemed he was expecting or wanting Ghost to be here with Jon.

"I'm your squire, my lord," Jon bit out bluntly, "I belong beside you, ser."

"You belong in Winterfell," Beric corrected him, his expression softened, "And that is where you must head."

"What of my brother?" Jon challenged, "He marches south with the might of the north behind him. I'm in this fight, my lord. It's just a matter of where I'll join it. Here," he pointed away, "or there at my brother's side."

"Enough," Beric's expression hardened. It was clear he was tired of this talking or more accurately tired of Jon's arguing. "My decision is made. I must honor your father's request. You'll leave as soon as you're packed."

\------------------------------------

"Master Snow? What are you doing?" asked a baffled Harwin, watching him in confusion as Jon gathered up his things by the fire and began to hastily stuff them into his bag.

Jon ignored him. He couldn't trust his voice. The anger bubbled in his gut, and he didn't have the strength or the desire to try to quell it, so he let it rage within. Already in his mind he was figuring out how'd he return. Ser Beric could send him away, but he couldn't keep him from returning.

"Snow."

He stopped. Looking over his shoulder to see the Red Priest approach him. He bit back a sarcastic retort that he yearned to say, and instead settled for a reply that sounded more curt than polite, "Thoros?"

"I've spoken with Ser Beric," Thoros cut right to it, "And convinced him it was folly to send you away."

That got Jon to stand up. "Really?"

"Aye, I told him you'd just sneak back and join us," Thoros answered, "and it'd be better to keep an eye on you from the start then have you join in the middle of the fray where we'd have a hard time keeping watch on you."

"I see," Jon's irritation stirred within: they wanted him back to watch him not because they thought they could use him.

"I offered to be that someone. To keep an eye on you, and you'll be by my side," Thoros revealed, "but I'd give you a chance to ask you one more time," a sobering look came to the Red Priest's face, "Are you certain about this, lad?"

"I am," Jon answered without hesitation, seeing a look flicker across Thoros' face that he couldn't quite place and then it was gone.

"Very well," Thoros let his stoic demeanor slip away as he brought up his wineskin, "We'll try to mostly stay out of sight."

"Says the man with a flaming sword," Jon smirked.

Thoros laughed, "I never said it would be easy, boy," he took a sip from his wineskin while looking around the campfire. "Where's your direwolf, Snow? I offered to have you at my side thinking I'd have that ferocious beast looking out for me too," his eyes glittered mischievously before feigning a frown.

Jon chuckled, "Ghost will be back." He was certain of it.

"Good," Thoros looked and sounded pleased by that reassurance, "Because we'll need any advantage we can get." He then patted Jon on the back, "Get some rest, lad. You'll do me no good sore and tired. It's an early morning for us all."

"I will," Jon assured him, the Red Priest didn't press him on it, only giving him a nod before heading back to his bedroll, "Thoros," he called back to him, he stopped and turned to Jon. "Thank you."

"That's the thing, Snow," he said softly, "I'm not sure you should be," he added solemnly, he then raised his wineskin in Jon's direction, and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the short chapter, but when I was working on this I decided that the actual fight and the aftermath of it deserved it's own chapter. We'll get back to Jon in two or so chapters.
> 
> Thanks for the support,
> 
> -Spectrerhire


	43. Domeric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie the last chapter's response was a bit disheartening. You guys have been so supportive these last few chapters, it was just a bit disappointing to get so little reaction out of the latest chapter. However, you guys have been great and really supportive for me and this story, and I'm thankful for it, but just wanted to get that off my chest. 
> 
> That being said, thank you to Randomfandomwoman, and FierceKat for taking the time to drop a comment. It was appreciated.

"Father," Domeric greeted his father with a low bow.

They were standing in the shadow of the Children's Tower. One of only three remaining towers of Moat Cailin that remained standing. And the one he had claimed for House Bolton when he and Sansa and their forces had arrived to the fortress. The red flayed man of the Bolton standard could be seen above them, the banner swaying in the breeze. As if the flayed man itself was beckoning the northern forces to the ancient stronghold.

His father dismounted from his horse. Silence was his only response. His pale eyes taking in the appearance of the tower they would reside in. It stood tall and slender, its stone covered in moss while half of the crenellations of the tower his eyes found the Bolton standard hanging atop the tower, his lips quirked upwards.

"My son," he finally brought his attention towards him.

Domeric remained quiet, and tried his best to keep still, feeling his father's eyes scrutinize him.

"Or should I call you the Dread Knight?" He asked with a lilt of amusement in his voice.

He instinctively flinched at his father repeating the name that had been given to him during his time at the capital. "No, Father," he replied, wanting to deflect any unwarranted criticism his father might have of it. "I had no choice in the name."

Father shrugged, "Its creation doesn't interest me, only the effect it's had."

Domeric said nothing. It was often the safest and wisest approach when speaking to him. Listen first, let him speak, and only reply when you had something valuable to say. Father didn't like his time being wasted, or those who wrongly tried to impress him.

"This name they've bestowed upon you has shown the south the might of our family," he said softly. "You have done well, my son."

"Father," the word nearly choked in Domeric's mouth, tone thick with emotion as he found himself caught off guard by the rare praise of his father that he always longed to hear. He ducked his head, suddenly feeling embarrassed at his poor showing of gratitude towards his father's words. "I live to serve our family, and the Lord the Dreadfort."

He felt a hand on his shoulder, Domeric glanced up to see his father. Hiding behind those pale eyes was a flickering look of pride. "That is why you will make a fine Lord of the Dreadfort one day." He squeezed his shoulder, before letting go and turning away to address some of the servants who stood silently waiting for further instructions.

Domeric was thankful for the reprieve, finding himself a bit overwhelmed at the sudden showing of pride and praise that came from his father. He knew to cherish this since his father's display of such feelings were fleeting.

"I am pleased at seeing the standard our family atop one of the three towers," his father's observation broke Domeric out of his thoughts.

He blinked to see Father was admiring the Bolton banner that hung proudly above them from its place on the Children's Tower.

"Let all the northern forces see where our family stands and our place in the north," his father's eyes returned to Domeric, "And now we have Lords Umber and Karstark squabbling over Drunkard's Tower like two dogs over a bone," he chuckled, pale eyes glittering in amusement at the conjured image.

"I'm glad you approve, Father."

"And the Gatehouse Tower?" Father ignored his previous reply, "Was that your idea for the Starks or Lady Sansa's?"

"Mine, Father," Domeric answered, unable to decipher the tone in his father's voice. He had insisted Sansa take the Gatehouse Tower when they arrived. It was the only one of the three which still stood straight. He believed the best tower belonged to the Starks, his liege lord

His father nodded whether in approval or because he had heard, he made no indication, "And where is the Lady Sansa?"

"With her brother at the Gatehouse Tower."

"Pity, I would've liked to have seen her," he waved a hand, "Well there will be time for that."

That left Domeric to briefly mull over why his father wanted to see Sansa with him upon his arrival.

"There is someone you must be reacquainted with, Domeric," He looked over his shoulder, "Come forward, my lady."

Domeric followed his father's glance to spot a woman who had been standing off to the side, surrounded by Bolton men-at-arms. He took in her familiar appearance, but frowned when no name was forthcoming. She was plump with brown hair and a homely face, but her eyes looked kind. She wore a wool dress, with the fur trimming around the collar reversed, the colors were dark with pink trimming.

She was dressed in the colors of his house, he felt surprise loosen his jaw. In looking down past her collar did he spot the pink flayed man brooch. His head snapped up, waiting for an explanation just as his father made the needed introductions.

"Meet my wife, the Lady Jonelle Bolton, formerly of House Cerwyn," He said casually, "The new Lady of the Dreadfort."

What? Those were the first words that he wanted to say, but he stopped himself. He wiped away the surprised look that he was certain flickered across his face however briefly due to his complete disbelief at his father's unexpected announcement.

"Pleasure to see you again, Lady Jonelle," he smiled at her, noticing the look of uncertainty behind her eyes. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, "It is an honor to welcome you into the family."

"Thank you, Domeric,"Her voice tremored. She was clearly not sure how he was going to react to the news and it seemed she feared he'd react poorly to it.

He kept his smile firmly in place, despite the difficulty of it. He sent her a reassuring nod before he turned to his father who watched the display between his newly married wife and his son behind a mask of indifference.

"See my lady," he took his wife's hand, "Nothing to worry about." He patted it with his pale hand.

Lady Jonelle shrunk at his words, face flushed in embarrassment that Lord Bolton would speak those words out loud. Before Domeric could interject himself back into the conversation to try to rally Jonelle's mood, his father spoke once more.

"Do not be ashamed, wife," he told her, "Your fears were natural." He turned back to Domeric, "Just as the fears my son is currently feeling."

Domeric frowned. "Father, that isn't-" He stopped at the cold look his father sent him, his protests dying on his tongue. His pale eyes were as sharp as swords.

"Do not lie to me," he clicked his tongue in disapproval. "My wife will bequeath the title of Lady of the Dreadfort to the Lady Sansa once you inherit the Dreadfort." His voice was as soft as a whisper. "You had worried about that didn't you, son? Or of your children's place in the line of succession."

"The thought crossed my mind," Domeric admitted, "But it was fleeting."

"As it should be," his father looked satisfied at his confession. "You are my heir, Domeric, and nothing can change that." He turned back to Jonelle, "This marriage was just prudent."

Why now, was the question he wanted to ask, but it was not his place to question or demand answers from his father. He was the Lord of the Dreadfort, not Domeric. His place was to serve.

"M'lord?"

Domeric and his father turned to the voice of the messenger. He wore the Stark direwolf on his chest. "Lord Robb Stark requests your presence, Lord Domeric.".

"Very well," Domeric replied, "Tell him I am on my way." He watched the messenger bow his head before going off to relay the message back to Robb. When he was out of sight he turned towards his father, "Forgive me, father," he ducked his head.

"Think nothing of it, Domeric," his father said mildly, "It would be unwise to ignore a summons from our acting Lord of Winterfell." His father's lips curved upwards slightly as he added, "I'm just pleased that he holds your counsel in such high regards. Our standard flies high, higher then it has in some time." He noted softly, "it is where it belongs." The Bolton standard snapped in the breeze above them, "Go Domeric, go to Lord Stark, lest he forgets our loyalty or our importance."

\----------------------------------------

A new wife, a new Lady of the Dreadfort, Domeric's mind was spinning. He hadn't thought his father would remarry after all these years, he knew other offers had been made and some had been inquired about but his father had always seemed disinterested in a third marriage.

Why now? What changed? These questions gnawed at him as Domeric searched for an answer to this unexpected decision from his father.

"M'lord?"

Domeric had been so distracted that he hadn't realized he had arrived at his destination. He put aside his thoughts on his father's sudden marriage to focus on the present. He was standing on the precipice of a ruined hall, a chill was in the air as the ancient structure could no longer shield itself from the draft. He looked to see a fire was burning bright in a few braziers that were lined across the hall. He moved inside the room, seeing a vacant and large stone table where maps and papers were spread out, but they looked discarded or forgotten.

Sansa was sitting on a bench near one of the hearths, her focus on Robb who was pacing in front of her. Lady was curled by Sansa's feet. It was the direwolf that noticed Domeric first. Her head perked up, and she was quick to get to her feet, padding over to him, rousing her had caught the others interest as his betrothed and friend turned in his direction. The former offering him a smile while the latter looked agitated.

His time fostering in Winterfell gave him the insight to know he was walking into an argument between the siblings. The distance between them, the chilliness that clung in the air, the looks, especially from Sansa he knew his betrothed too well to be fooled. He was able to see the annoyance lurking behind her radiant smile. While Robb never really could hide his feelings particularly when he was upset. It allowed Domeric to read his friend's moods as easily as if they were ink on a page.

He was certain he knew the cause of it, but he wanted to be sure so he stayed silent for the moment. He crouched down to pet Lady, feeling the eyes of both Sansa and Robb upon him, but he let the silence be drawn out, waiting for them to fill it, to explain the reason behind their squabbling.

It was Robb who spoke first. His composure crumbling. "My sister is being stubborn and foolish," he complained, "She won't listen to me."

Sansa was unphased by his agitated tone. "He means to say that I will not follow his demands meekly."

Robb dispelled a breath in frustration. "The news from the south is worse than we could've thought."

"What have you heard?" Domeric detected the concern in his friend's tone.

Robb gestured to large stone table, where the maps of the Riverlands were spread out. Domeric followed his friend with Sansa at his side, he felt her hand entwined with his, causing him to look her way, her reply was a simple smile that made his heartbeat quicken.

"A battle was fought here below the Golden Tooth," Robb pointed to the western portion of the Riverlands whose border they share with the Westerlands. "Uncle Edmure sent Lords Vance and Piper in an attempt to hold the pass," Robb's mouth twisted bitterly, "However, the Kingslayer descended on them and put them to flight." His finger tapping the spot on the map where Golden Tooth was. "Lord Vance is dead, and Lord Piper fell back to join Uncle Edmure back at Riverrun," his finger tracing the path from Golden Tooth to Riverrun before stopping at the ancestral seat of House Tully, Robb and Sansa's mother's house.

"And the others?" Domeric asked.

"Scattered, besieged, or defeated," Robb shook his head, "But we have worse news. Lord Tywin brought a second Lannister army into the Riverlands from the south. It is believed to be larger than the Kingslayer's."

"Shit," Domeric didn't try to mince his words. This was dire news to hear. The Lannisters' foothold in the Riverlands was secure and growing. They were threatening to take the Tully seat, the Lords Paramount of the Trident. If they were successful it would be a severe blow that could very well render the Riverlands all but under Lannister control with the rest most likely retreating or surrendering if such a demoralizing loss could be delivered by Lord Tywin and his Westerland forces.

"Yes," Robb sighed, "Lord Tywin has closed off the King's Road, marching north towards Harrenhal, burning as he goes." He turned towards Sansa. "Can't you see, sister? This is no place for you." His expression softened, "I was worried enough with you accompanying us with just the marching, but this," he paused, eyes shining, "This will involve fighting. Lots of it," he cleared his throat, "And I cannot risk it."

"She can travel with my Aunt, Lady Dustin is making the trip with her forces as are my uncles from my mother's side and My father's new wife," Domeric suggested, "Sansa will be protected under the banners of Dustin, Ryswell, and Bolton, as well as your own."

Domeric loved Robb as a brother, but he couldn't ignore his obligation to his family and house. As much as it pained him to think about Sansa being anywhere near the battles to come. He knew if she was sent back to Winterfell, his father would not be pleased. It would alienate his family's support and if they had any chance of getting Lord Stark back and defeating the Lannisters, Robb would need the strength of Bolton, Ryswell, and Dustin to do it.

Robb's expression hardened in an instant. He understood what it was Domeric was implying. "She is my sister, and I am the acting Lord of Winterfell," he growled.

"Robb, he's right," She was trying to pull his attention away from Domeric and to smother the obvious anger that he was feeling at what had been said. "I need to come with you. I'll be well protected with guards from what, four houses?" She laughed lightly at the number, "Not to mention with Lady."

"You're my sister, Sansa." He wrapped his fingers around hers, "But I won't ask as your brother."

"If you were asking as my brother, Robb, I'd forgive your ignorance, knowing you were blinded by your love and your need to protect us," She smiled at him, "But if you're asking me as the Lord of Winterfell, I'd think the choice is folly. You'd be angering three powerful northern houses," she pointed out politely, "And there would be no sound excuse the Lord of Winterfell could make to justify such a clear mistake."

Surprise flickered in his blue eyes as her words sunk in for with the disbelief spreading across his face.

Domeric bit back a smile despite the tense mood that had settled between him and Robb. He couldn't help but admire his betrothed's courage and wit. Her criticisms delivered bluntly and graciously, cutting and bludgeoning through her brother's reasoning to make him see the error in his thinking.

It was Robb who gave first, he sighed, "Very well," he said in a tone that made it clear he wasn't very happy with it.

"Thank you, Robb," she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

A slight smile broke through his annoyance, as he shook his head, "You are a formidable adversary, sister." That smile vanished when his eyes found Domeric. "Mayhaps, Domeric would escort you back to your chambers, Sansa."

He wasn't surprised by Robb's demeanor but it didn't mean it still didn't hurt him, but regardless, Domeric nodded before offering his arm up for Sansa to take. They moved silently across the drafty hall, both recognizing they were being dismissed effectively by the Lord of Winterfell.

Domeric looked over his shoulder to see Robb had busied himself with the maps before him. His hulking direwolf, Grey Wind having moved from his spot and towards the table where he took to sitting beside Robb, who sensed his presence as his hand was there to scratch the top of Grey Wind's head.

"I shall be expecting you for supper, Robb," Sansa called back to her brother in a tone that conveyed he best not disappoint her.

He looked up to show the corner of his lip curved, he nodded in her direction before lowering his head back towards the maps.

It stung him to be dismissed by his friend. Domeric could help Robb, but instead he was being sent away.

"Give him time," Sansa's voice said softly, sensing what was troubling him, as they exited the hall and made the walk towards the Gatehouse Tower. The chill in the air was quick to greet them as they left the warmth of the hall behind. "He'll understand," she squeezed his arm.

Planks had been placed upon the damp, muddy soil to form paths between the different parts of the castle that were being used during their stay. A pair of Stark guards had followed them on their path, and Domeric knew they had been sent by Robb to serve as chaperone to him and Sansa.

Another reminder of Robb's displeasure towards him.

Sansa took in their newly arrived chaperones with a quick mutter under her breath directed at her brother, but when she turned to him, her frustration melted away, where she regarded him thoughtfully. "He will not stay angry with you. I do not think he is capable of it." She cupped his cheek.

Domeric relished her soft touch, looking down at the beautiful face of his betrothed, her blue eyes shinning in understanding, "Thank you." Her presence, her words, her understanding, he was thankful for all of it. Spurred on by such strong feelings, his arms snaked around her waist, pulling her into an unexpected and intimate embrace.

Surprise flickered across Sansa's face, as she let out a startled gasp that had Domeric laughing. He moved his hands up and down her back to try to soothe her sudden distress.

His laughter broke her out of her surprise. A look of annoyance settling over her features before she rolled her eyes at him, "Dom," she warned him but there was no sternness in her tone.

"My apologies, my lady," he leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, "I just wanted to show my gratitude."

"You have." She smiled up at him.

Pleased, Domeric hesitantly broke their embrace. Aware of the Stark guards watching them, and the expectations of propriety between them having to be observed. He saw a flash of disappointment behind her eyes, but her smile remained towards him and they continued on their way back to her chambers.

"I have a gift for you," she remarked abruptly.

"Oh?"

"Yes," She answered. "I got it while we were at White Harbor."

"Odd, we left the city days ago." He replied playfully, his smile growing at Sansa's reaction to his remarks.

"I know," she said, "But there was a selfish part of me that wanted to wait to give this gift to you until I knew."

"Selfish part of you?" He repeated, "I didn't know such a part existed."

"Oh Dom," she chided him in amused exasperation, "I wanted to enjoy this gift. So I wanted to make sure I was staying before I gave it to you."

"And if you weren't staying?" He asked, they had arrived outside of her chambers.

"You would've had to wait longer," she smiled.

He laughed, "Fair enough," still smiling when he asked, "So what is this gift?"

"It wouldn't be much of a surprise, Dom if I just told you what it was," She shook her head. Without another word, she slipped into her room to retrieve it.

He was left to quietly ponder what it was she had gotten him. He had a suspicion of what it was, but would be surprised regardless, seeing the thought and care she had put into getting him something. It made him wonder if he had need to return the gesture and to have a gift for her. He frowned at that, not knowing what he had or what he could give to his betrothed. He felt the worry bubble in his stomach at the fear he wouldn't be able to reciprocate her generosity.

"Dom?"

He blinked out of his thoughts and worries at the sound of her voice to see she was standing before him.

"Yes?" He looked to see she was holding something, a cloth rested atop of it to shield his eyes, but the outline of the gift was unmistakable.

"For you, my love," she offered.

"Thank you," He replied, aware that she was watching him closely. He brought his hand down onto the cloth, and peeled it away to confirm guess on the gift, but even still he looked upon it with unbridled appreciation and enthusiasm. It was a weirwood harp, masterfully crafted, the pale bark of the weirwood gave it an ethereal quality.

"It's magnificent," he breathed, gingerly picking up the instrument. The head of the harp had a skillfully carved face of a weirwood tree. It's eyes were red, and its mouth was twisted upwards looking almost joyful.

"You like it?" A lilt of doubt colored her tone.

"I love it," he pulled his eyes away from the wonderful gift, and moved to embrace her to show how much he'd cherish it. "You are too kind, my lady. You spoil me with your compassion and generosity." Despite the chaperones who watched them, and the propriety that felt insufferable at times, he pressed his lips to hers to show her his appreciation.

The ardent kiss was brief since it was interrupted when one of the guards cleared their throats to signal their presence and displeasure. He broke the kiss, a heady sensation filling him while a smile remained on his lips. He looked down to see a hazy hue in his betrothed's eyes that flickered away when their eyes met, replaced with a shimmer he couldn't quite place, but the corners of her lips curved upwards to show her approval towards his action.

"I have one request," she said breathlessly.

"Anything."

"Could you play me something as I fall asleep tonight?" Her fingers restlessly pulling at imagined hems on her dress.

"Of course, my love," he assured her. Noticing the look of instant relief that shone through her expression at his answer. It troubled him. "Are you well?"

"I've been having troubling sleeping," she answered vaguely.

He nodded, seeing that it wasn't wise to press. "Then you shall have my company to help you," he held up the gifted harp, "And my music to soothe you," he tugged at a few strings, pleased at the sweet music that resonated from it. "As many nights as you need them."

"Thank you, Dom," she hugged him.

He had to maneuver the harp in his hand to properly return the unexpected embrace from his betrothed, but he did so without complaint. "I'm here for you, my love. Whatever you need," he whispered softly.

"I know, but you cannot stop these," Her eyes were unfocused when she looked up at him, "nightmares."

\----------------------------------------

"My son what news from the wolves do you bring me?" His father lay naked atop his bed. Leeches clung to the insides of his arms and legs and dotted his pallid chest. Long translucent creatures that turned a glistening pink as they fed upon his father's blood.

"Now that their lady mother has returned to them?"

Guards and servants moved aside for Domeric to let him get closer to his father, he noticed Maester Uther was tending to his father and the leeches. Another man, younger and taller but dressed in the robes of the Citadel with the Link chain stood at Uther's elbow, a look of mild revulsion flickering over his scruffy face. He recognized him as Maester Wolkan, remembering Uther telling him of the newly arrived maester.

Between the maesters and his father's bed, Domeric spotted the new Lady of the Dreadfort, Jonelle, she looked pale and queasy as she watched the leeches atop her husband's body. Behind the maesters stood a handful of guards, armed and alert. Amongst them was Captain Rylen who gave Domeric a small nod and Steelshanks Walton, who looked dour, but bowed his head at Domeric's arrival.

The room was eerily silent even with so many within, a certain hush was required to hear his father's soft voice.

It had been a long time since he saw his father being leeched, but even after all these years, he couldn't shake the unsettling feeling in his gut at seeing those little creatures on him.

Domeric could still recall when he was younger the first time he accidentally came upon his father being leeched. He had been terrified, thinking they were eating his father, killing him, and he remembered fleeing the room, scared and upset until his mother came to collect him and corrected him of his mistake. The memory made him smile, one of the strongest he still had of her.

"Father," Domeric bowed when he reached the other side of his father's bed, across from Jonelle and the servants. "Lord Robb was most displeased with her," He said delicately, unsure of how much he should say of the private conversation he saw between the Starks.

"Indeed," Lord Bolton sounded amused, "She captured the Imp which earned the lion's wrath," He paid the leeches no mind as they suckled upon his blood, "The Riverlands burn and she returns with no hostage to ease us out of this mess." He noted, "The wolf bit its own tail," he chuckled, "or trout in this regard."

Some of the guards snickered at that, but no one dared add anything else to it.

Lady Stark had arrived less than an hour ago with the Manderly forces that they had been waiting for. He was relieved of their arrival as their time at Moat Cailin was becoming increasingly frustrated and bothersome with bickering lords and dwindling supplies. Now with the strength of White Harbor having joined them, Domeric knew their departure from the ruined castle would be swift.

"My son is quiet," His father's soft voice pulled Domeric out of his thoughts, "I did not ask for silence, Domeric. I asked for information," he chided him mildly.

"Forgive me, father," Domeric was quick to apologize. "Lord Robb intends to send his mother back to Winterfell to help his younger brother, Bran rule."

"Interesting," his father reacted as if he didn't find it that at all, "She seemed determined to stay with him when she interrupted our meeting earlier this evening."

"That was her intention," Domeric wanted to pick his words carefully, as he had nothing but respect for Lady Stark despite her recent shortcomings. "However, Lord Robb thought it was best that she return to the Stark seat. He did not take kindly to how she treated Jon when she apprehended Lord Tyrion."

"His bastard brother?" His father interrupted calmly.

"Yes, father," Domeric remembered how furious Robb had been when he and Sansa had told him of Jon being abandoned in that inn. Time had not soothed that anger and Robb had decided that distance might, when he ordered Lady Stark back to Winterfell.

"This one is done," his father announced, signaling to one of the leeches atop his chest. It had grown fat, nearly bulging, its skin a hauntingly shade of pink.

Wolkan stepped forward to remove it with the pincers. Uther quietly giving him instructions as he went forward with the removal.

"Tell me, Domeric, have you heeded your father's wisdom about the benefit of leechings?" His father asked, ignoring the maesters and the leeches.

"I have not," Domeric answered respectfully.

He watched the fat, pink leech get picked up with a squelching sound from Wolkan's pincers. It writhed and wriggled as it was pulled from its feeding, almost sounding as if it was hissing its displeasure. While it was Jonelle not the maesters who tended to the wound the leech left behind.

"That's a pity, Domeric," he replied. "Frequent leechings are the secret of a long life. A man must purge himself of bad blood," he smiled faintly, "When one does not purge the bad blood, it consumes them." He placed a pale hand atop of Jonelle's who was dabbing at the mark from the leech. "Let us hope our child will heed my wisdom."

She looked a bit startled at suddenly being spoken to, but she recovered quickly. "Our son will," She insisted, before flushing, "I mean when we have children, they will listen to their father."

Roose smiled, "Let us hope one grows inside you now, my dear wife. A healthy son to serve as a spare." He then waved his hand away as she bowed and stepped back to her spot. "You know that's what happened to your bastard brother, Domeric."

The mention of his bastard brother caught him off guard. "What do you mean?"

"Ramsay was consumed by his bad blood. It drove him into this folly that made him believe he was worthy of your spot."

Domeric frowned. "I don't understand."

"Ramsay was going to kill you," His father said plainly, "Pretend to be a brother to you just so he could get close enough to drive the dagger into your gut."

He shook his head at that. "No, he wouldn't kill me." That didn't seem possible. He and Ramsay would be close. He was going to seek him out once this trouble in the south was dealt with. He and his brother would be just like Robb and Jon. Ramsay wouldn't try to murder him. That wasn't how it was going to be.

"Oh yes," His father confirmed softly, "He wanted your place, the Dreadfort, and your pretty betrothed all for himself. He wanted it all and he'd walk over your corpse to get it."

He found himself stepping backwards until he hit the wall. His mind reeling at his father's revelations. It couldn't be true, but he saw the seriousness in his father's pale eyes. His father had warned him about Ramsay, had told him he was dangerous, had said not to approach him.

Domeric felt his stomach clench. The burning taste of bile crawled up his throat as he was confronted with just how stupid his dreams of him and Ramsay had been. He was going to kill me for the Dreadfort and Sansa…

"The bad blood made him do terrible things," his father continued as if wanting to drive the point of just how wrong Domeric had been and how right he had been, "Murdered and raped across our lands. He even flayed his victims trying to adhere to our family's practices despite his name being Snow and not Bolton."

Domeric was sick. He tried to push down the bile, but the images conjured by his mind's eye at his father's words made it a difficult task. I was going to lead Sansa to this monster, he found the nearest chamber pot and emptied his stomach of its contents. His mind continued to assault him with Ramsay hurting Sansa while he lay dead at their feet.

He heaved again, shuddering as he did. "I was a fool," he muttered as he put down the chamber pot.

"You were," His father was unsympathetic to his sickness. "You thought you knew better than me."

"Lord Domeric," Uther had approached him, offering a glass of water.

"Thank you," he drank the water greedily, wanting to banish the rancid taste of bile out of his mouth and throat.

"However, you knew better then to go against my orders," his father pointed out, "You were wise enough to listen to my counsel even when you thought it was wrong."

Domeric numbly nodded. He was still struggling to process everything his father had just revealed to him about the truth of his bastard brother.

"It has been corrected," His father said mildly, "He has been dealt with."

"He's dead?" Domeric found relief in asking for confirmation of Ramsay's supposed doomed fate. The same brother he had previously longed to know and dreamed about meeting. Those feelings had been properly purged now that he realized just how wrong and foolish he had been.

"Yes," His father answered, "Do you approve?"

He thought about Sansa when he answered, "I do."

His father smiled in approval, "Robard, step forward."

A guard came forward, looking a bit surprised at being called out by Lord Bolton. His beard was unkept and his hair was cut short. "M'lord?" He looked between Lord Bolton and then Domeric with a touch of uneasiness.

Lord Bolton ignored him, "With the Manderly forces here, we will soon be marching south."

Domeric nodded, "Yes, Robb was adamant that we leave soon."

"Clever boy," His father remarked, "That means we will be marching south to fight the Lannisters. The men of the south wear plate, the sword will be ineffective against this armor." He waved a pale hand towards the guard known as Robard, who came closer cautiously.

"That is why Domeric you will start training more with mace and axe which do better against plate," He instructed, "Robard will oversee it," he pointed a finger towards the guard, "I will not lose you because of the fault of a weapon choice."

"I understand, father, and thank you," Domeric bowed his head to him before turning to the stranger who would be training him. "Robard, well met."

"M'lord," Robard greeted him, "You may call me Bitter if you prefer."

"Bitter," Domeric smiled, "An odd name."

"It was given to me because I come from the Bite," he shrugged, "I didn't really travel with maesters or minstrels, m'lord, but the name stuck."

"Clearly," his father chuckled, "When its decided which weapon you prefer, one will be given to you, Domeric."

"Yes, Father," Domeric wouldn't let him down.

"Good," he then waved his hand, signaling Domeric was dismissed.

He left his father to his leeching. His thoughts not on his added weapon training, or the pending march south into the Riverlands, but instead it lingered on the truth of his bastard brother.

I thought my father wrong and it almost cost me everything, he realized, He had been arrogant in dismissing his father's warning and he couldn't afford to do that again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So mace or axe or should it remain a sword? Which do you think Domeric should wield? I'm interested in your guys' take. So let me know if you decide to drop a review.
> 
> Also some time passed between Domeric and Sansa's scene together with the harp and Domeric talking to his father while he was being leeched. Sorry if I didn't convey that better.
> 
> Yes, Catelyn Stark is returning to Winterfell and won't be accompanying them south. Her children are safe, and the new tension between her and Robb especially in regards to Jon made this a different decision then what we see in canon. It shall be fun to explore these new AU ripples as they unfold. However, the Blackfish is still going south with Robb.
> 
> The choice regarding Lady Stark will be further discussed/explored in future chapters.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


End file.
